Читать книгу Regency Collection 2013 Part 1 - Хелен Диксон, Louise Allen, Хелен Диксон - Страница 33

Why she should turn to this one man, Lily did not know, except that he was so big she felt instinctively that she would be safe with him. When he stood, and she saw his decent, unfashionable suit moulding broad shoulders, his gaze steady on her, his shock of dark hair which was so badly in need of trimming he had tied it back, she could have wept with relief at the contrast with Adrian.

‘Please, sir, please hide me, Ad … he is following me.’ His gaze flickered to the neck of her gown and his lips tightened. ‘He hurt you.’ It was a statement and he held out his hand. ‘Here. To me.’ Lily let herself be pulled down on the seat next to him, sheltered by the broad cheek of the settle. The man stayed on his feet, his eyes sweeping the crowded coffee house and the fascinated customers. ‘No one has come in here these five minutes past,’ he said, his voice carrying across the room with no apparent effort. ‘This lady is not here.’

People turned away, conversation picked up, the scene began to animate again and Lily let out a little sobbing breath. ‘Thank you sir—’

‘Get down.’ His hand on her shoulder pressed her inexorably towards the floor as the door flung open again. Lily slid without grace between settle and table and found herself curled up tight against her rescuer’s leg. There was barely room. She wrapped her arms around his calf and pressed her cheek to his knee. From her hiding place she could see Adrian’s feet, his striped silk stockings, the hem of his cloak, nothing else. The room had fallen silent again, so quiet that the clatter of crockery and the raised voices from the kitchen could be heard clearly.

‘A lady came in here not a moment since. Where did she go?’ Lord Randall’s voice was languid, arrogant—and under it Lily could detect seething rage.

She stirred, trapped, convinced that every finger in the room was pointing at the table she hid under. A big hand settled on her head and stroked as though it was reassuring a nervous cat.

‘No gentry mort’s come in here, sir.’ The waiter sounded bored, as if he thought Adrian was yet another half-cut young buck out on the town. ‘And we don’t let no other kind of woman in either, should that be what you’re looking for, sir. Gentlemen only, this place. If you want the other, then there’s a place down the road I can—’

‘No, I am not looking for a harlot, damn your impudence. Come along, someone must have seen her.’ The tone was demanding and patronising. Without being able to see a single face, Lily could sense the antagonism of the patrons—Adrian could have chased Napoleon Bonaparte into Hatchett’s and they would have refused to hand him over to this lordling.

‘Reckon you must be mistaken, sir,’ a voice said, full of mock-civility. ‘Lady’s given you the slip by the look of it.’

The door slammed behind Adrian, but the derisive cackle of laughter would have reached his ears, Lily thought with satisfaction. She tried to wriggle out, but the gentle hand held her down. ‘Not yet, just in case.’

‘Unlicked cub,’ an elderly man at the next table observed. ‘You can let her up now, sir, he’s gone.’

Lily emerged and smiled shyly round at the interested faces. ‘Thank you.’ She received a few grins and nods, then the patrons went back to their own business. The entertainment was over.

The waiter came across, lifted the empty plates and whisked a cloth over the table. ‘A cup of coffee, miss? Or chocolate?’

‘Chocolate, please. Oh, I have no money.’ She began to tug a ring off her little finger. ‘If I leave this and send a footman in the morning, would that be all right?’

Long fingers closed over her hand. ‘Put it on my reckoning. And here, that’s for your acting.’ A coin changed hands.

Lily turned to her rescuer and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Thank you, sir, I do not know what I would have done if you had not hidden me.’

His eyes were a dark grey, almost like slate under level black brows. They seemed to look right into her mind. Lily realised she had no clear idea of what he looked like, and dragged her gaze away to look at his face. Wide cheekbones, a strong nose and chin. A little on the thin side for his build perhaps; he looked like a man who had missed a few meals lately.

A face used to commanding men, she thought. And he was big, especially in contrast to Adrian’s languid elegance. It was not so much his height, although he must have topped six foot, estimating from her own five foot five, but he carried muscle like a man who used his body hard.

Some sort of craftsman? A sailor? Yet his voice was educated and he held himself with complete assurance.

‘Do you want me to send for someone?’ he asked. Lily realised he had shifted so he was shielding her from most of the smoke-filled room.

‘No, but perhaps you can call me a hackney carriage shortly, thank you.’

‘You will be reporting him to the magistrates?’ It was hardly a question.

‘No! Why should I do that?’

‘Attempted rape?’ he suggested softly.

‘Oh.’ Lily found she was blushing scarlet. ‘No … I mean it was not like that. Not really.’

The man did not speak, but his glance at her torn gown was eloquent.

‘Lord—I mean, that gentleman, is my betrothed. We had a misunderstanding. It was my fault, I should not have gone with him alone in his carriage.’

‘It was not your fault. He had no business to treat you like that. Don’t let me hear you say that again.’ Anger throbbed in the quiet, deep voice.

‘I doubt we shall meet again,’ Lily said with a touch of frost in her voice, ‘so the question is academic.’ She had the sudden feeling that if she did not stand up to this man she would simply acquiesce to whatever he wanted. Which was preposterous, as all he appeared to want was to protect her.

Her froideur made him smile, transforming his face, making him look younger. Late twenties? she wondered. ‘I should introduce myself. My name is Jack Lovell.’ Lily half-expected him to add something, a hesitation seemed to hang in the air, then he added, ‘From Northumberland.’

‘Lily France. From London.’ She held out her hand and it was enveloped in his.

‘What a pretty name, Miss France.’

‘Thank you, Mr Lovell. You are a very long way from home. Are you on business in London?’

‘I am seeking investors.’ The waiter appeared and slid a cup in front of her. The fragrant steam curled up to her nostrils, comforting and blissfully ordinary.

‘Investors? What for?’ Lily twisted round, interested, Adrian momentarily forgotten.

‘Steam engines. For a coal mine. Not a very fascinating subject for a lady, I am afraid.’

‘But it is,’ she protested. ‘I am most interested. Are you an engineer, Mr Lovell?’ That might explain the muscles.

‘An amateur. I own the mine.’

‘Then you will be concerned with canals as well, perhaps?’ She took a sip of chocolate. ‘I have investments in several canal companies, but I do not know about any canals that far north. Do you send house coals by sea to London through Newcastle, or are you supplying industries close to hand?’

Jack Lovell’s expression made her smile. ‘I have trustees,’ she explained. ‘But I like to be involved in the investments. My father was a tea merchant, not a manufacturer, so I know more about importing than manufacturing and very little about mining.’ It was such a relief, she realised, to be able to speak openly about her family and their business without having to pretend they had nothing to do with the squalid pursuit of making money.

‘We supply sea coal for London mainly. I want to reach more industry, but there are not the canals close enough yet.’

Lily drank her chocolate, thinking. ‘Why do you need the steam engines? For pulling up loads of coal from the shafts or for pumping out water?’

‘Miss France, you do know what you are talking about, do you not? It usually takes me half an hour to get to that point with a potential investor.’ He smiled at her and she found herself smiling back, basking in the praise. Her trustees took it for granted that she would study her facts, and everyone else subscribed to the fiction that women had no brains to speak of. She was unused to compliments on her knowledge. ‘I need them for pumping, possibly ventilation. Lifting would be a bonus.’

‘Well, I have to admit you have now reached the limit of my understanding of steam engines,’ she confessed. ‘Tell me …’

‘No, you should not be here, in this place, with a strange man. Now you have recovered a little I will call you a hackney carriage. Finish your chocolate and I will be back in a moment.’

Lily watched him thoughtfully as he made his way to the door. Mr Lovell’s steam engines might be an interesting investment. She would have to find out more about it. The fact that Mr Lovell’s broad shoulders and quietly dominant masculinity was making something flutter pleasantly inside her was, of course, nothing to do with the matter. She pulled the dance card off her wrist and scribbled her address on it.

‘There is a clean and respectable hackney cab waiting outside.’ She looked up and found he was standing by the table. ‘The driver will take you home.’

Lily got up and held out the card. ‘Thank you, Mr Lovell. This is my address: let me know if you need an investor for your steam engines.’

‘Ma’am.’ He took her elbow and showed her out and into the cab which was standing at the kerb. ‘If I might venture some advice? Find a new man, one who realises you are worth waiting for.’ Jack Lovell stepped back before she could do more than stretch out a hand and start a few words of thanks. He spoke to the driver, giving the address from her card she realised, then lifted his hand in farewell.

And I cannot find him again. Lily craned out of the window, but he had vanished into the fog, back into the coffee house. She leaned against the lumpy squabs and made herself think. Adrian. What am I going to do about Adrian?

The illustrations in La Belle Assemblée were delightful this month. Lily flattened the spread pages of the journal open under the weight of her side plate and tried to divert herself by studying the walking dress. Three rows of cutwork ruffles enhanced with french knots of deep blue ribbon rose from the hemline, the cambric skirt was gathered high under the bust, contrasting with a bodice and sleeves in blue velvet with white puffs at the shoulders and cuffs. An ornate knot of velvet and lace was posed at the neck.

The shawl it was shown with was disappointingly plain and the bonnet no more than tolerable, but it had possibilities, especially in green velvet with a silk skirt. And more ruffles, of course. Lily narrowed her eyes and wondered which items from her jewel box would set it off best. The emeralds in the gold setting were the obvious choice, but there seemed to be some stuffy rule about coloured gems in the morning. Still, even with pearls, Adrian would admire it.

Lily picked up her neglected toast and bit into it thoughtfully, thankful that Aunt Herrick was breakfasting as usual in her room where she would remain for much of the day, venturing out later for a carriage drive or to go shopping.

In fact, the presence of her mother’s sister was a nod to respectability. She was not a close and watchful guardian of her niece. Mildly eccentric, Anne Herrick excused her laxity with the accurate excuse that as the widow of a mill owner she would not lend her niece any countenance and could safely leave that to Lady Billington whenever Lily attended a social gathering.

But Mrs Herrick was an avid reader of all the papers and a mine of information about the glittering world into which she was devoted to propelling Lily. And, as a woman who had had no scruples about the tactics she had used to win the prosperous Mr Herrick, she was equally open minded in her schemes to entrap Lord Randall.

She seemed to have succeeded all too well. To Lily’s amazement Adrian had appeared on her doorstep the morning after that shattering incident in Piccadilly and confirmed his proposal of marriage.

‘But, last night …’ she had stammered, realising that she had not expected to see him again.

‘Lily, my darling …’ He had taken her hand and pressed a chaste kiss on it, ‘… you must make allowances for a man in love. I should have realised how shy and innocent you are; no wonder you reacted as you did. I cannot pretend an innocence to match yours—you know that. But I have learned from this and I promise to behave from now on.’

And, to her own inner amazement, she found herself accepting his apology, accepting the engagement. It seemed the only thing to do in the face of his penitence. What would happen if she rejected him now? But he had not been in any hurry to see it puffed off in the announcement columns, which was a trifle flattening, even when he explained that it would be best to deal with ‘all that boring business with settlements’ first.

In other words, Lily brooded, the very large sum of money he was expecting her trustees would reveal to him as her inheritance. He would anticipate that all her assets would be his as her husband. A frown creased Lily’s brow in a way that would have earned her a sharp reprimand if Lady Billington had observed it. Would Adrian be very upset when the Trust was explained to him and he discovered that things were not quite that simple? And what was he going to say when he realised just how involved Lily was with the management of her inheritance?

She realised, guiltily, that she was half-hoping he would change his mind—not that that was a course of action a gentleman could take after what had passed between them. And not one a lady could tolerate either … if a merchant’s daughter who had allowed herself to be alone in a carriage at night with a man could be categorised as a lady.

Lily shook herself briskly and ordered another pot of chocolate. Each member of the family had made sacrifices in order to advance the fortunes of the Frances. Grandfather had scrimped and saved to amass the inheritance that her father had then made into a fortune. Her mother had died in India soon after childbirth, her father had weakened his health with his long hours and even longer journeys. Her duty was to capture a title and respectability at whatever cost to her finer feelings. Papa’s grandsons would be gentlemen: it had been his dearest wish.

If only she could feel more enthusiastic about Adrian. She had not expected to love him, but she wished she could at least feel warmly about him. That faint glimmering of physical attraction had vanished after the incident in the carriage and had not resurfaced, even after four weeks.

Oh, dear. She had burnt her boats, she was realising that now with the benefit of hindsight. If she could be transported back, she would not have gone with him, whatever anyone else advised her—even at the cost of his proposal.

A deep, serious voice echoed in her memory. Find yourself a new man … And with the memory came the inner stirring that she experienced every time she thought of those broad shoulders, the calm strength, the deep grey eyes of her rescuer.

The door opening to admit Blake and the chocolate also admitted a faint rumour of noise, which seemed to be coming from the street, despite the distance from the front door to the rear breakfast parlour.

‘Blake, what on earth is that racket outside?’

‘I was just coming to ask you, Miss France. Have you ordered any coals?’

‘Coals?’ What was the man talking about? ‘Blake, Mrs Oakman orders the coals, I do not.’

‘I know, ma’am. But she says she hasn’t and there are three coalmen all claiming you wrote and ordered four hundredweight of best sea coal to be delivered this morning.’

‘Well, I did not. There has obviously been a mistake. Send them away at once.’

‘Yes, ma’am. What about the fishmongers and the milkmaids?’

‘What fishmongers and milkmaids? And what is Fakenham doing, for goodness’ sake?’

‘Arguing with them, ma’am.’ The footman was looking increasingly unhappy as the sound of the elderly butler’s voice, raised in a controlled shout, reached them. ‘There’s the carters, too, with the root vegetables. And the pianoforte. The man with the pianoforte is none too pleased about being jostled by the coalmen, Miss France.’

The sound of the front door slamming cut off the worst of the noise. ‘Ask Fakenham to come in here, please.’ Lily threw down her napkin and got to her feet as her highly superior butler appeared, red-faced and spluttering. ‘Fakenham, whatever is going on outside?’

‘I have no idea, Miss France.’ The man pulled himself together with a visible effort. ‘The street is a mass of tradesmen, all, so far as I can gather, insistent that they received orders to deliver goods here or to attend upon you.’

‘Well, send them away!’

‘Miss France—’ A heavy knocking sent him hurrying back down the hall. Lily followed, then slipped into the front drawing room and drew aside the curtains just enough to peek out.

The steps were occupied by four soberly clad men, each clutching a tall hat wreathed in black gauze. Behind them a black open vehicle displayed a magnificent coffin.

At least Fakenham’s denials appeared to have some effect upon them. As one, they bowed stiffly and made their way down the steps, only to be swept up in the rush as half a dozen sturdy men jostled past the coffin brake to deposit wooden boxes on the steps.

‘No! We have not ordered any Madeira wine!’

Lily stepped back, utterly confused. It was a scene of bedlam. Behind the coffin brake several post chaises were manoeuvring amidst a crowd of delivery men, none of whom seemed backward in expressing their opinions of each other’s right to be there, the quality of their produce or what they thought of Fakenham’s denials.

A small coterie of women battered their way through the mob, wielding hat boxes with lethal determination, and gained the front steps.

‘Lily, what a racket! Is it a riot?’ Her aunt’s voice behind her was a shriek.

‘I have no idea. But at least you can see it too—I was beginning to think I had run mad and was hallucinating.’ Aunt Herrick sank into the nearest chair, fanning herself; her satin-sheathed bosom heaved alarmingly. ‘Go back upstairs, Aunt—go to one of the back bedchambers where it will be quiet.’

‘It is the Revolution! We’ll be murdered in our beds! Those wretched mill workers have infected the London mob with their dreadful continental ideas.’

‘I doubt we are being besieged by a mob of revolutionary tradesmen armed with coal and carrots. I will send for the constables,’ Lily said, tugging the bell pull with more calm than she felt. ‘Blake, find Mrs Herrick’s woman and see she helps her to her chamber and stays with her. Then send Percy and Smith to assist Mr Fakenham and you run round to the Marl-borough Street office and request as many men as possible to come at once.’

She twitched back the curtain and winced. A man had arrived with a moth-eaten bear on a chain; it was, at least, clearing a space in the road, although the group of burly chairmen seemed prepared to dispute the ground. ‘Go out of the back door and through the mews. And hurry!’ she called as the footman bowed his way out.

The youngest footman staggered in. His elaborate frogged livery was dishevelled. ‘Miss France, ma’am, there are three midwives and a surgeon and two dentists.’

‘Tell them to go away, for goodness’ sake, Percy! Does it look as though anyone here is about to give birth or needs their teeth pulling?’

‘No, Miss France.’ He ducked out again, only to reappear moments later. ‘Miss France, there’s a clerical gentleman come from the Bishop of London …’

‘That is the outside of enough!’ Lily marched to the front door, beaded trimming jingling around her hems. Poor Fakenham could not be expected to deal with this.

‘Sir.’ The clergyman stopped his involved explanations to the butler and bowed politely, his broad-brimmed hat clutched in both hands. Her appearance seemed to have an effect on the crowd and the noise level dropped markedly as all heads turned to regard her.

‘I very much regret that you have been put to inconvenience and that my Lord Bishop has been so imposed upon, but, as you can see, I appear to be the victim of some outrageous practical joke.’ It had to be that, she recognised with a sense of relief. There was no other explanation for it.

As the flustered cleric plunged back into the mob, Lily scanned the crowd from her vantage point on the top step, ignoring Fakenham’s agitated attempts to make her go back inside. It felt hideously exposed, and the noise was building again as the people who filled the street came to the realisation that here was the person who had—apparently—commanded their appearance. They began to push forward again. The crowd was packed out even more by figures who seemed to be nothing more than curious onlookers, drawn by the free entertainment.

‘Come inside, ma’am, please. It will be all over the newspapers by tomorrow.’

‘Oh, where are the constables?’ Lily stood on tiptoe to try and see the street entrance. One tall man, dark and hatless, was making his way through the press. Not an officer, but somehow her gaze was drawn. He did not seem to be pushing or shoving, but people made way for him like a shoal of fish parting before a predator. She could not take her eyes from him. Jack Lovell.