Читать книгу Historical Romance March 2017 Book 1-4 - Louise Allen - Страница 13

Chapter Three

Two hours later Sara watched Mr Dunton—the Mysterious Marquess, as she was beginning to think of him—finally extract his sister from the shop, his arms full of parcels. She had suggested that Marguerite leave her purchases, and the shell-work project she had just begun work on, and she would have Tim bring them down to the hotel. But nothing would content her other than heaping them into her brother’s arms, despite the fact that no gentleman—let alone a marquess—should be walking around town laden like a footman.

To judge by his expression, any number of parcels was worth the animation on the girl’s face, the colour in her cheeks. Sara knew she ought to dislike him, or, at least, be completely indifferent to him, for he was exactly the kind of man she was living her life to avoid, but she admired his care for Marguerite.

She was still musing on the brother and sister—rather more on the brother, if she were to be truthful—as she locked the door, drew down the blind and began to deal with the contents of the cash drawer while Dot cleared away the tea things and washed up. The day’s takings had been good, she saw with satisfaction, entering them in her ledger before locking the money bag away in the safe. She must make a trip to the bank tomorrow, which was very gratifying.

It was not that she needed the money, exactly, but profitability was her main measure of success in a business and Sara did not like to fail at anything she put her hand to.

‘There you are, ducks.’ Dot emerged from the scullery, flapping a drying cloth before hanging it on the rail. ‘All done and dusted. Busy today, wasn’t it? I liked that little scrap of a lass, the new one. Pretty manners and no side to her. Looks as though she’s been having a difficult time of it though, bless her. It’s a hard thing to lose a baby.’

‘What?’ Sara stood up from the safe so sharply that she hit her head on the shelf above. ‘Ouch! What do you mean about a baby?’

‘She’s grieving and sad and she’s thin—but not in her bubbies. And Mrs Pike knocked against her when she passed the scones and she flinched and made a little sound like it hurt. I reckon they’re still sore, poor lamb, just like mine were when I lost our second.’

‘But she’s so young, only eighteen, I think. Oh, Dot, how awful.’ No wonder her brother was so anxious and so protective and they were here under a false name. ‘We must look after her, because I don’t think she has her mother or a companion with her, no woman to talk to, only her brother—and her maid, I suppose. And I would wager this shop he’s thinking most of the time about how to kill the man who fathered her child and not about how it has affected her.’

That was what men of breeding did, guarded the honour of their womenfolk whether the women wanted it or not. And people got killed as a result and the women in question were tied about with rules and restrictions because their menfolk cared so much and honour meant everything. Their honour, she told herself angrily. That helped stifle her own guilty conscience. A little.

The demands of honour had killed her husband, the man she had thought was above those antiquated notions about women and their lack of right to govern themselves and it had driven her here, a safe distance from the loving tyranny of father and brother. She could not turn away from Marguerite.

‘We’ll do our best for her, that’s for sure.’ The older woman threw her shawl around her shoulders and picked up her basket. ‘I’m off home to make supper, then we’re going down to the Dog and Mackerel, Farwell and me. What’ll you be doing, ducks?’

‘Dancing at the Assembly Rooms. I have promised Mr Makepeace a set.’

‘He’s sweet on you, you know, and he’ll never say, a’cos of who you really are.’

‘I know. I don’t encourage him, Dot. I just want to be friends. It isn’t because of who I am—it’s because I don’t think of him in any other way.’

‘Aye, poor bugger. He knows it, so don’t you be worrying about breaking his heart. He wouldn’t do for you anyway, but he’ll be hard put to compete with the likes of that other one now he is on the scene.’

‘What other one?’ As if I don’t know. ‘Honestly, Dot, shouldn’t you be off home?’

Her henchwoman, superbly indifferent to hints, made herself more comfortable with one expansive hip propped against the doorframe. ‘That Mr Dunton. If he’s a plain mister, then I’m the Duchess of Devonshire. And he’s taken a fancy to you. Not an honest one, that’s true, but where’s the harm in a bit of fun between the sheets, you being unattached and no maiden, as it were?’

‘Dot, stop it this minute. A bit of fun between the sheets indeed! I wouldn’t think of such a thing.’

Which is a barefaced lie. I haven’t thought of much else since I set eyes on him. The Mystery Marquess. Only his presence here was not such a mystery now she knew about his sister.

‘Aye, well, that’s what you say. You have a good time and if the Rooms are too dull, you drop in at the Dog and join in the sing-song.’ She took herself off on a gale of laughter at the thought, leaving Sara torn between amusement and exasperation.

Home for you, my girl. A nice bath, a few letters to write and then get dressed up and off to the Rooms for some wild dissipation, Sandbay-style.

* * *

Sandbay’s Assembly Rooms were only a year old, the creation of a consortium of the town’s leading businessmen who had raised the money for the construction. They had visited Weymouth and Brighton to seek inspiration and had returned to order a building containing a ballroom, card room, tea room and the associated retiring rooms, cloakrooms and entrance hall.

It was all very shiny, still smelled faintly of paint and had proved an instant success with the visitors and local gentry alike. Sara, who had a subscription for the season, paid off her sedan chair, left her outer clothing at the cloakroom and entered the tea room which served as the foyer during the evenings. A little flurry of new visitors was clustered around the Master of Ceremonies, Mr Flyte, who abandoned them with a smile and descended upon Sara.

‘Dear Lady Sarisa, welcome, welcome.’ She was his highest-ranking subscriber—unless Mr Dunton had subscribed and been recognised—and flattering her was far more important to the Master of Ceremonies than any number of newly arrived minor gentry.

‘Mr Flyte, please do not let me interrupt. You were speaking to these ladies and gentlemen.’ She bowed slightly in apology to the waiting visitors, annoyed that he had deserted them to toady to her, and went on through to the ballroom.

Although the music had not yet begun the room was already filling up, none of the subscribers feeling the need to demonstrate fashionable ennui and drift in halfway through proceedings.

James Makepeace appeared at her side, slightly pink and scrubbed around the ears, but smartly attired in his best evening suit. ‘Lady Sarisa, good evening. You have not forgotten that you promised me the first set, I hope?’

‘I have not.’ She put her hand on his proffered arm and they strolled around the room, greeting old friends and stopping to chat with the local squire, Sir Humphrey Janes, whose grandfather had built the first lodging houses which had given the resort its initial impetus. His son had invested in the hotel and the bathing rooms and the present baronet saw it as his family duty to encourage the social life of Sandbay.

‘You are in great beauty tonight, my lady.’ He bowed over her hand, twitted the librarian mildly on his courage in leading out the belle of the ball and warned Sara to ready herself for a visit from his sister. ‘She has plans for a charity bazaar and is scouring the town for committee members for the organisation. You would do well to flee to Brighton, if not Scarborough, to be at a safe distance.’

* * *

It was the laughter that caught Lucian’s attention as he entered the ballroom, Mr Flyte at his side. Rich and musical, it sent a shiver of awareness down his spine.

‘Now, Mr Dunton, you must not hesitate to call upon my services for any needs you have while you are a guest in our little town. We may be small, but we pride ourselves here in Sandbay on giving our visitors our most personal attention. Suggestions for tours, recommendations for the most reliable livery stable—’

‘Who is that lady? The one in the amber and the emeralds? The one laughing.’

It couldn’t be, surely? A shopkeeper in silk and gems? Perhaps they were paste, but he doubted it—the green glowed in the candlelight with the authentic fire in the eyes of a black panther.

‘That, Mr Dunton, is our most distinguished resident, Lady Sarisa Harcourt—Lady Sarisa Herriard as was—the only daughter of the Marquess of Eldonstone.’ The Master of Ceremonies beamed as though he was personally responsible for the appearance of so elevated a personage. ‘A widow, you understand,’ he murmured. ‘We are fortunate that she recovers from her loss amongst us.’

‘Mr Flyte, this morning I took my sister to a shop called Aphrodite’s Seashell and met a Mrs Harcourt who bears a most uncanny resemblance to that lady.’ Someone was playing games with him and he did not like it.

‘Oh, hush, sir, I do beg you.’ Flyte was positively flapping his hands in agitation at this indiscretion. ‘A little eccentricity in a lady is something to be indulged, is it not?’

‘It is?’ Eccentric dowagers were one thing, beautiful young widows were quite another.

‘Oh, most certainly. Lady Sarisa lends lustre to all the social and charitable occasions in the town and also amuses herself harmlessly by providing entertainment of a cultured and unexceptionable kind to ladies of all ages.’ He cleared his throat and lowered his voice even more. ‘We assist in keeping her ladyship’s two, shall we say, lives quite separate.’

What the blazes her father the Marquess thought of this Lucian could not imagine. He had met the man, and his exquisite and alarming Marchioness, two years ago when they had come to England from India when Eldonstone inherited the title. The East India Company soldier and his exotic, half-Indian wife had caused a stir amongst the ton and there had been a son and daughter, he recalled now, but he had not met them because he had been called from London to his father’s deathbed and the remainder of that Season had passed without him.

Lady Sarisa had inherited her mother’s looks, but her father’s blond hair and grey eyes, striking in contrast with the pale gold of her skin. For a moment he speculated that her marriage had caused a rift in the family, but if it had, she had not been cut off without a penny, because that gown and those gems had not been bought on a shopkeeper’s earnings.

The small string orchestra struck up with a flourish and couples began to come on to the floor to form the first set. Lady Sarisa was led out by someone else he recognised, the gangling local librarian.

‘I would beg the favour of an introduction to the lady when this set is completed, Mr Flyte.’

‘Of course, sir. I would be only too happy to oblige.’

Lucian might be incognito, but he knew that Flyte had discreetly assessed his tailoring, his accent and his manner and clearly decided that he was suitable to make the acquaintance of Sandbay’s grandest resident.

Lucian was wryly amused at his own reaction to that valuation. He had thought that somehow he kept his own self-esteem separate from his sense of what was due to his rank and position, but it seemed that his father’s constant reminders of what was due to—and from—a marquess had made a deeper impression than he had thought. This was the first time that he had ever found himself in society as a plain gentleman and it was a mild shock to find how much he would have been put out to have been ignored.

He took himself off to the card room, reluctant to let Lady Sara see him standing waiting on her, watching her. If she wanted to play games, he was not going to join in, at least, not too obviously. But how to approach her now? Flirtation would be acceptable, he was certain, but anything else was another matter. This was not some dashing widow on the fringes of society.

* * *

When the set finally came to an end he was back in the ballroom, Mr Flyte at his side.

‘Lady Sarisa.’

She turned at the sound of the Master of Ceremonies’ voice, the movement wafting her scent to Lucian’s nostrils. Definitely sandalwood, with an overtone of citrus, an undertone of pepper and a stimulating frisson of warm female skin, although that last might have been his fantasies at play.

‘Mr Flyte.’ The smile on her lips curved them into a seductive bow and her grey eyes seemed to pick up green glints from the emeralds at her ears and throat.

‘May I have the honour of presenting Mr Dunton of Hampshire to your ladyship as an eligible partner? Mr Dunton, Lady Sarisa Harcourt.’

Lucian bowed, she curtsied. Mr Flyte retired beaming.

‘Lady Sarisa.’

‘My lord.’

For a moment he thought he had misheard her, then he saw those grey eyes were alight with mischief. ‘Just who do you think I am, madam? I confess that you have me confused.’

‘I know exactly who you are. The Marquess of Cannock. Do you intend to ask me to dance, my lord? I am unengaged for the next set.’

‘I would be delighted,’ he said grimly, offering his hand as the musicians signalled the start. ‘We need to talk, Lady Sarisa, but not here.’

‘No, indeed. I will show you our seafront terrace after this set. It is delightful on such a warm evening as this.’

‘I am sure it is.’ Lucian made himself concentrate on the dance, a complex country measure that kept him busy negotiating the steps and gave little opportunity for speculation on the games eccentric young ladies might play on moonlit terraces.

‘There is no reason we may not converse about general matters,’ Lady Sarisa remarked as the convolutions of the dance brought them together for a moment. ‘Unless you are a nervous dancer, of course, in which case I will observe strict silence. You only have to give me a hint. Do you intend a long stay in Sandbay, Mr Dunton?’

‘My nerves will withstand a little conversation, I believe. I had planned on a stay of a few weeks, Mrs Harcourt.’

She chuckled softly as the measure separated them and he remembered with a jolt that this was not some game between the two of them, but something much more serious. She knew he was keeping his sister from society, that there was something very wrong and he had no idea at all whether he could trust her discretion. Who did she know and, more importantly, who might she gossip to? If he had any hope of saving Marguerite’s reputation then she must make her come-out next Season in good health and spirits without a whisper of suspicion that anything had gone amiss. Even then, it was going to be hard enough finding a suitor willing to overlook what had happened if it ever came to a proposal of marriage.

But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, there was this woman to deal with. This infuriating, teasing, beautiful woman.

By the time the set had finished Lucian was quite ready to scoop up Lady Sarisa and dangle her over the waves if that was what it took to ensure her promise of silence. Somehow he managed to wait until they were off the dance floor and to make his words a suggestion, not a demand. ‘Madam. Would you care to take the air?’

‘That would be delightful. The terrace is this way.’

The Assembly Rooms building stood at one end of the promenade with its back to the sea at the point where the sweep of sand tapered into the beginning of low cliffs. At high water, which was the present state of the tide, the waves broke against the foot of the sea wall along which the terrace had been built. In a high wind they would have been drenched. As it was, with only the lightest breeze, and the moonlight enhancing the glimmer of lanterns set along the balustrade, it was a welcome escape from the heat and noise of the ballroom.

Lucian scanned the terrace along which at least half-a-dozen couples were strolling. ‘We are adequately chaperoned, I see.’

‘We will be alone soon enough, but I am not quite so careless of my reputation as to come out here when it is deserted to begin with, my... Mr Dunton.’

‘If your reputation can survive spending half your time as a shopkeeper, Lady Sarisa, I would suggest it could stand most things.’

‘Sara, please. Anywhere else it would not, of course, but Sandbay is not the resort of the ton, nor even the smarter set. One day soon it will begin to come into fashion and then I will have to become respectable all of the time or leave.’ She lifted her hand from his arm and strolled to the balustrade.

Lucian felt as though he had stepped away from a warm hearth. ‘You do not fear that irreparable damage has already been done by your masquerade as a shopkeeper?’

Lady Sara turned in a swirl of skirts and leaned back, both her elbows on the stonework. The amber silk settled into soft folds that hinted at the slender limbs and feminine curves beneath. He kept his eyes on her face with an effort that he feared was visible.

‘It is not a masquerade. I am a shopkeeper, just not all of the time.’ She sighed. ‘I see I was right about you, Mr Dunton—you are one of those men who believe a woman begins and ends with her reputation and that what defines good and bad reputation is dictated entirely by the whims of society.’

‘Hardly whims. The conventions uphold moral standards and protect the lady concerned from insult.’ Lord, but I sound like some crusty old dowager.

‘You believe that running a shop as I do somehow degrades my morals?’ Sara seemed genuinely to expect him to answer such a shocking question. ‘If I were running a milliner’s and whoring out my assistants, which is all too common, then, yes, I would agree with you. It seems to me that society is too lazy to apply judgements on a case-by-case basis and so must make sweeping statements that mean nothing and only serve to imprison women.’

‘The rules are there to protect women, not imprison them.’

‘They do little to protect women who are without money or influence, those who have to work for their living. They trap ladies.’ The passionate belief throbbed through her voice.

He could have shaken her because she was so mistaken. ‘It is the duty of gentlemen to protect ladies. A matter of honour. You know your father and brother would say the same and your husband would have agreed.’

‘Oh, yes, he agreed with them. In the end.’ A tremor shook her voice and for a moment he thought she blinked back tears, then she was on the attack again. ‘When you come right down to it this is all about men’s honour because we are your possessions.’

‘Ladies need protection.’ Lucian stalked over to the balustrade and stood a safe six feet away. Shaking the provoking creature would not be a good illustration of his case, kissing her even worse. ‘How did you get here this evening, for example? These streets and lanes are dark, anyone could be lurking.’

‘By sedan chair with the same two reliable, burly chairmen I always use. They will come and collect me later. And should desperate footpads leap out and manage to fell both of them, then I can defend myself.’

‘How? With sharp words?’ he demanded and took two strides to stand in front of her, his hands either side, pinning her back against the balustrade. ‘Men are stronger, more vicious, than you could imagine.’

‘Also more vulnerable,’ she murmured. ‘Look down, my lord. It is not only my words that have an edge.’

He did, just as he felt a pressure against the falls of his evening breeches. In the moonlight something glinted, sharp steel, held rock-steady in her hand. Lucian stood quite still. ‘Where did that come from?’