Читать книгу Regency Collection 2013 Part 1 - Хелен Диксон, Louise Allen, Хелен Диксон - Страница 34

‘Look here, miss, did you, or did you not, order these chickens?’ The heated demand from the foot of the steps jerked Lily’s attention back, but her heart was thudding.

‘No, I did not. Now, please, go away and stop waving that poor bird at me!’ She flapped her hands at the cloud of feathers that the struggling chicken was shedding. This was hopeless, but they could not leave the front door undefended and she could not abandon her staff to face the chaos either. And Jack Lovell was coming.

The slender, red-headed woman on the top step was, indeed, Miss France. He had not been surprised at the formal tone of her letter referring to his advertisement in the newspaper; she would not wish to refer to their first meeting, not in writing.

What this bear garden in the street was about he could not imagine, nor why she was exposing herself to it. It was bizarre, even by the standards of everyday life in London. And why, at ten in the morning, Miss France was dressed in a manner which suggested that, not only was she going to pay a morning call on the Prince Regent, but had donned most of the contents of her jewel box, he could not fathom. She seemed to have a lavish taste in dress, the only thing he had found about her so far that he did not admire. Other, of course, than her taste in men.

A snarl and a blast of foul breath to his left had him turn a broad shoulder and change his course slightly away from the shaggy brown beast. It seemed it truly was a bear garden. Dodging round the back of the coffin brake, he found himself at the foot of the steps.

‘Miss France?’

‘Yes?’ She turned and he stopped abruptly, one foot on the next step. Close to, he could ignore the ornate hairstyle, the dangling earrings, the frills and furbelows. The young woman who was staring back was the one who had stumbled into the coffee shop, and his heart performed the same futile dance it had then. She looked at him with her wide green eyes—such long lashes. In daylight he realised just how lush her mouth was. Her skin was like peaches and she had the look of a deer at bay. He corrected himself: an angry deer.

‘Mr Lovell—I do not know how you come to be here, but if you believe I have written to you, I can assure you it is all a mistake. Some malicious jest.’

What the devil was her household about, letting her expose herself to this mob? Two footmen, magnificently attired and well over the desirable six foot in height, flanked her butler, but none of them appeared to be able to control matters. It was doubtful that anything, short of a platoon of infantry, could.

‘Miss France, you really must go back inside.’ He reached the step beside her as shouts and Hibernian oaths behind him signalled that a fight had broken out amongst the chairmen.

‘I cannot leave my staff.…’

She has guts, he thought, seeing the way she moved protectively closer to her elderly butler. ‘I will stand here with them. Have you sent for the constables?’

‘Yes, some time ago. Mr Lovell, I know I should not presume upon you, but I would be so grateful for your help.’ She winced as the ripe oaths and threats grew louder.

‘Inside. Now.’ He half-turned, shielding her body with his own as he reached for the door handle. He wanted to pick her up, bundle her indoors, protect her.

She was going, almost, but she lingered, one hand on his sleeve. ‘I am so sorry about this.’

‘It is hardly your—’ The cobblestone came out of nowhere. He knew what it was as it struck his temple, then the world went black, the sounds ebbing into a sort of rushing as he went down. The last sensation he was aware of was the feel of fine cloth under his clutching fingers.

Lily knelt beside the sofa and tried to support Jack Lovell’s lolling head while she organised her panicking household. ‘Fakenham, send to the kitchen for warm water and bandages. Bring the other footmen in, close the front door and have them stand by in the hall in case anyone tries to break in—except Percy, send him for the physician.’

‘Ma’am, shall I fetch your maid to you? And, er …’ He gestured at the bosom of her gown. Lily spared it a glance. In falling Jack Lovell had caught at it, exposing her shift, the edge of her corset and the generous curve of the top of her right breast. It hardly seemed of importance now, with his face a mask of blood and the wound seemingly unquenchable.

Lily dragged the torn cloth up and tucked it into the edge of her stays. ‘Yes, find Janet. Tell her I need salves and bandages—and some pillows. And a blanket,’ she called after the butler’s retreating back.

She managed to wedge Mr Lovell back against the sofa cushions, heedless of the effect on the fine striped satin. Head wounds bled a lot, she knew that, but knowing something in theory was a far cry from facing the gory reality. Lily dragged her handkerchief out of her reticule and pressed it to the wound—where had that girl got to?

‘At last!’ she snapped as the door banged open. ‘Bring the bandages here, quickly.’

‘Lily, what the devil do you think you are doing?’ It was not her maid, it was Adrian.

‘What does it look like? Please, give me your handkerchief. This scrap of lace is no use.’

‘I will do no such thing.’ He stalked over to peer at the man on the sofa, then stepped back with a grimace of disgust. ‘Lily, you are covered in blood. Stop that at once.’

‘And let him bleed to death?’ she demanded. Oh, he was slumped so awkwardly now she could hardly get any pressure on the wound. She tugged at the broad shoulders, but he was too big for her to move. ‘Jack! Jack, can you hear me?’

The man groaned and shifted slightly, letting his head fall on to her breast as she struggled to keep the handkerchief in place. The door opened. ‘Janet, finally! Make me a pad with those bandages. Good, now stop cringing and help me—’

‘Get out.’ She was so taken aback by Adrian’s curt command that for a moment Lily could only gape at him from her crouched position by the sofa. Janet gave a little squeak of alarm and scuttled out before she could call her back.

‘How dare you! What right have you to order my maid—’

‘I have every right, and the sooner you learn it the better, if you intend to be Lady Randall. I come here and find the house the focus of some sort of vulgar riot, I have to enter through the back door like a servant and I find my soon-to-be wife half-naked, clutching some tradesman to her bosom. Who the devil is he?’

For some reason, she was not prepared to admit she knew Jack. ‘I have no idea. He came to my aid and was hurt by a flying stone. And I am not half-naked, my gown was slightly torn as he fell, that is all.’

‘No idea?’ His voice sneered. ‘I heard you call him by name. Do you take me for a fool?’

‘No, I do not. I take you for uncaring and suspicious.’ Lily turned her back and managed to tie the pad of bandage around Jack’s forehead. Where her hand rested on his shirtfront she could feel the heat of his body, the pulse of his heart. He felt hard and male and formidable for all his present helplessness. She wanted to wash the mask of blood away and see his face, but forced herself to concentrate on the important things.

‘I think the bleeding has eased. For goodness’ sake, Adrian—why are you in such a temper about this?’ she tossed back over her shoulder. ‘I have no idea what caused the chaos outside and I am certainly not responsible for it.’

‘It is not the sort of thing that happens outside a respectable household,’ he retorted. ‘And why am I out of temper, you ask? Because I have just spent an hour with your trustees, and a more awkward set of old women I have never met. They tried to tell me that as your husband I would have control over only one-third of your fortune. How can they think that lying to me is going to help them stay in their position? With their fingers in the honeypot, I have no doubt.’

‘Because it is true,’ Lily said, fighting to keep her voice calm. She gave the bandage a final pat and stood up, keeping her hand lightly on Jack’s shoulder. It seemed to give her strength. ‘Until I am thirty, or I marry, all my money is controlled by my trustees. Then I, or my husband, comes into control of one-third. The remainder is in perpetual trust for my children until each reaches the age of twenty-one.’

‘Impossible.’ Adrian was white with anger. ‘That cannot be legal.’

‘I can assure you it is, my father took the very best advice. I do not find it onerous; I sit with the trustees to make decisions.’

‘You? Your father must have been insane. No woman understands money.’

‘I do. And you will not insult my father, if you please.’ She could feel her fingers tightening into the shoulder of the man lying at her side and forced them to open. ‘I am a very rich woman. One-third of that fortune is enough for anyone.’

‘It is not enough for me—I do not marry some tradesman’s daughter for one-third of anything.’

‘Then that is easily remedied.’ The words were out of her mouth before she could think. Under the flat of her palm she felt Jack stir and bent anxiously to look at him. A hand closed hard on her shoulder and pulled her away.

‘…your lover…’ The words buzzed and faded in Jack’s ears, making no sense.

God, it hurts. He tried to lift a hand to his head, but his arm wouldn’t move. He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed to be glued shut. Either that, or he was struck blind.

‘ … dare you!’ A woman’s voice, incredulous, yet shaking with fury. ‘I have no lover …’

‘Trollop.’ He heard her gasp at the flat insult. ‘You get the taste for it in my arms, then you pick up with some lusty tradesman … pretending you’re so shy …’ The colours swirling behind his blinded eyes intensified; he was losing consciousness. He fought against it—she needed him.

‘I hardly think that after your groping, any woman would be in haste to repeat the experience! Unless possibly in the hope that it would not prove quite so repellent with someone else.’ Jack felt his lips quirk involuntarily at the frank vehemence of her opinion, then stiffened as he heard her give a gasp of pain. The bastard was manhandling her.

Somehow he got his feet on to the floor, then struggled to stand, lurching like a drunk, rubbing at his crusted eyes in an effort to see. Blood, that must be it. He managed to get them half-open, the room swaying madly about him, furniture and figures blurred.

‘Get your hands off her.’ His voice cracked; he had no idea if he was whispering or shouting. The pain in his head was like an axe blade, cleaving his skull. He was going to lose consciousness in a moment, the blackness at the edge of his vision was closing in.

‘Adrian, stop it!’ Her voice was familiar, lovely, even tightened with fear and anger. Lily, that was it … The male figure came towards him, pushing the girl away roughly. Bastard. He raised his fists against flashes of burning agony in his shoulders. Another fist was coming towards him. He tried to focus, dodge; something hit him on the point of the jaw and the darkness claimed him again.

So, this was death. It must be. There was no pain, yet he could not move, his eyes would not open. He was laid out straight on something soft and yielding, his arms by his side. Vaguely he recalled a blow to his head. Last time he had been hit on the head the awakening had been all too vividly physical: darkness, wrenching pain, the taste of coal dust in his mouth and nose, the crushing weight of a pit prop across his shoulders. No, this time he must be dead.

Heaven or hell? That was the important question. Jack dragged his lids apart. A background of deep lapis blue boded well; no leaping flames, at any rate. Between him and the light there was a figure, blurred and wavering. It leaned closer. A woman. ‘Angel,’ he murmured.

As if trying to hear, the angel leaned closer still. An oval face, lush lips, great green eyes, a cloud of burnished amber-red hair. Simple desire lanced through his body and he blinked. Was he supposed to feel that if he was dead? His loins tightened. ‘Angel?’

She leaned even closer. Now he could feel her breath on his face. No, not an angel, not with that face nor with the emotions he could sense behind it. A temptress? He was prepared to be tempted …

His arm could move after all, clumsily. He encircled her shoulder, pulling her down. His lips found hers. Oh, they were sweet. She tasted of fruit and smelt, deliciously, of roses. His mouth moved, sampling the softness, the warmth, the innocence of her hesitant response. Not a temptress then. He was kissing an angel—he’d be damned. Worth it, though … His eyes closed and he slipped back into darkness.

Lily felt the consciousness leave him again as the heavy arm pinning her to his chest slid away. Yet she did not move, other than to push herself up a little so she could study his face.

Jack Lovell. She knew no more about him than his name, that he owned a mine, that he was chivalrous, courageous—and kissed like the devil. Which ought to be impossible, considering the wound on his head and the amount of blood he had lost.

Her hand spread, feeling the muscle strapping his chest under the thin linen of his shirt. When he had gone down under Adrian’s cowardly blow he was still struggling, fighting to raise himself on one arm. She remembered a print of the Dying Gaul, unyielding even in defeat, and shivered; she had never been close to a man so strong, so male in such an obvious way.

When she had turned from furiously flinging open the door and ordering Adrian out, Jack’s fingers were still locked in the pile of the carpet as though he was trying to drag himself up. It had taken four footmen to get him upstairs and into the best spare chamber; even unconscious and battered, he dominated the ornate room like a wild animal let loose in a formal salon.

A knock on the door sent her scrambling back to stand demurely by the bed. ‘Doctor Ord, I am so relieved to see you. Did you have much trouble making your way through the crowd outside?’

The fashionable practitioner put his case down with precision on the bedside table and bowed. ‘Miss France. No, no trouble once I had convinced the constable that I was indeed expected and not another victim of this deplorable hoax. Your footman explained a little on the way back. Outrageous, ma’am. It must be investigated. Now then, what do we have here?’

‘A gentleman who was knocked out by a thrown cobblestone while attempting to help me.’

‘Hmm.’ The doctor bent over the unconscious figure, running his fingers through the thick hair. ‘How did he fall? Did he hit his head on the ground?’

‘I do not think so. He fell heavily on the steps, though; I suspect he may have bruised his back badly.’ Dr Ord tipped Jack’s head and bent to study the bruise on his chin. ‘There was a fight,’ Lily improvised.

‘I see. Well, off you go, Miss France, this is no place for an unmarried lady. If you can send me in a footman—no, make it two—that would be helpful.’

Lily retreated to her sitting room and tried to order her thoughts. What had caused that mêlée? Even now, well into the afternoon, there were still people outside, constables barring the way to her front door, raised voices.

It was a practical joke, certainly. No mistake could account for it. Who disliked her so much that they would go to so much trouble? A name came easily to mind, now she was thinking calmly: Lady Angela Hardy. And she had certainly succeeded if her intention had been to cause Lily the greatest possible amount of trouble and public embarrassment. In fact, she had succeeded beyond her wildest hopes and had ensured that her cousin was no longer involved with the despised Miss France.

‘Lily dear?’ Aunt Herrick peered round the door. ‘Have they all gone?’

‘Almost. But I think we should stay inside today.’

‘But what was it? I really cannot understand. Had they all mistaken the address?’

‘I believe it was a malicious trick by Lady Angela Hardy,’ Lily said grimly. ‘I upset her a month ago at Almack’s.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Mrs Herrick frowned. ‘You must make it up with her as soon as possible. Lord Randall will be most displeased when he finds out that you have quarrelled with a close relative of his.’

‘It is rather too late for that: I have broken off the engagement.’

‘You have what? But, Lily …’

‘Adrian was angry when he found how my money has been left in trust and he was upset because of the uproar outside—which he seems to blame me for. He behaved very badly, so I broke it off.’ Saying it out loud brought nothing but a wave of relief. She should never have let herself become entangled with him, never let herself be persuaded that it was right to buy a husband and a title when she did not even feel liking for the man himself.

It was dawning on her that Papa and her family might be wrong and that her instincts were all too correct. It felt like treason—could it be true? No, surely not. Papa had always been right.

‘But, Lily—whatever will people say?’

Lily got slowly to her feet, staring at her aunt’s appalled face. Fear roiled through her stomach; it was worse than what people might say about the hoax or the simple breaking of her engagement. She had let Adrian compromise her. For one error of judgment she could be ruined and Adrian, furious with her, would no doubt do nothing to protect her good name.

‘Miss France, Dr Ord asks if you will join him.’

‘The doctor!’

‘Aunt, please, it is merely that a gentleman was injured in the street. None of our household is hurt. I will just go and speak to the doctor, there is nothing to be concerned about.’

Leaving Aunt Herrick lamenting behind her, Lily followed Blake back to the guest room. Thinking about her ruined reputation would just have to wait. Jack Lowell was lying quite still, his head bandaged and his shoulders bare above more strips of linen encircling his chest.

‘His skull is not fractured,’ the doctor said immediately on seeing her anxious face. ‘In fact, it must be as hard as rock to have withstood that blow. His back is a mass of bruises; he will have hit the steps as he fell.’

He began to pack his case. ‘But your man’s no stranger to injuries. I would be a little careful, Miss France. It is hard to guess what his background is. He has got more scars than the average soldier, but not bullet or sabre wounds. His back has been damaged before, but not, I am happy to say, as a result of flogging. He is well fed and fit and muscled like a navvy. If his knuckles were scarred differently I would guess at a prize-fighter, but, although he has worked hard with his hands, they are well kept. I cannot make him out—and I do not like puzzles.

‘There is nothing to be done for him but to wait until he comes round, then give him plenty to drink—that cordial on the table there is for his headache—and keep him resting. Call me if there is any bleeding from nose or ears or if, when he regains consciousness, his vision is blurred.’

Doctor Ord bowed his way out, escorted by Blake, leaving Lily gazing dubiously at her guest. She was still standing there, wondering how long it would take Angela Hardy and Adrian between them to spread the news of her disgrace and the hilarious tale of her discomfiture, when his eyelids flickered and she found herself looking directly into a pair of dark grey eyes.