Читать книгу The Outrageous Belle Marchmain - Lucy Ashford - Страница 10

London—four days later

Adam Davenant had issued the invitations to the meeting at his house in Clarges Street only yesterday, but despite the short notice every single person had come and he was under no illusions as to why. Quite a few of them had never visited his Mayfair mansion, and they would all be desperate to get inside and assess his wealth.

Greeting them, he’d cynically noted how their eyes leapt out on stalks as they registered the expensive if discreet furnishings. The number of liveried servants. The superb wine and food on offer. Everything was perfect; it damned well had to be when people were all too keen to rake up your lowly origins.

Though the plentiful wine was perhaps a mistake, Adam decided as the boasting grew louder amongst the rich and ruthless men who’d gathered to feed on the cold repast set out on the vast table in his first-floor dining room. When the boasting began to turn to bickering, Adam knew it was time to start the real business of the day. He rose to his feet at the head of the table and, as was his way, stated his case bluntly.

‘In Somerset there’s stone to be quarried that’s as good for building, gentlemen, as any in the world. With London expanding so rapidly there’s a never-ending market, and all of us—whether landholders or business investors—stand to gain. But the issue I wish to discuss today is—transport.’

Adam was dressed impeccably in black with a snow-white, plain cravat and he made an imposing figure. Though not yet thirty, he carried the authority of a man who was accustomed to power.

He carried the authority of money.

All eyes were on him as he turned to point to the large map hung on the wall behind him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he went on, in the polished voice in which there was no trace of his grandfather’s west country vowels. ‘What we need is a railway to convey this fine new stone from the Somerset quarries to the Avon canal and thence by water to London.’

‘There are railways already, Davenant,’ someone called out.

‘You mean tramways for trucks, pulled by horses or powered by gravity,’ replied Adam. ‘I’m talking about a steam railway. All of us with goods to transport from Bath to London—not just stone, but farm produce and manufactured goods, too—would benefit. The carrying times would be halved and the profits doubled.’

Already several men were nodding and murmuring agreement. But Lord Rupert Jarvis—who had, Adam noted, been eating and drinking steadily since he arrived—was sneering openly. ‘You mean your profits doubled, Davenant. Not mine.’

The blond-haired Jarvis, as well as possessing large estates in Somerset, owned a big haulage business with networks of carriages and teams of horses all across the south of England. Known to be a cruel master of both men and beasts, Jarvis saw the emergence of the railways as the coming of Satan.

Adam countered him with icy calmness. ‘There’s still room for all forms of transport, Lord Jarvis. But we cannot ignore the chances that steam offers. Some of you will already know that the Yorkshire mine owner Charles Brandling has been using steam engines to carry his coal to the ports for years. I’m proposing that each of us become shareholders in this new Somerset railway. And apart from the profit motive, we’ll all be aware, I’m sure, that a railway would spare our men and horses much hard labour.’

‘Siding with the workers, Davenant? They’re damned lucky to have jobs,’ said the sleekly dressed, coldly handsome Jarvis crudely. ‘If they aren’t up to it, tell ‘em to get their wives or brats to help out. That’s what I do.’ He looked challengingly round at the assembled company.

‘I’m sure you do,’ said Adam. His chiselled face was expressionless, but his grey eyes were hard as granite. A tense silence had fallen.

Jarvis leaned back in his chair. ‘Show us your route, Davenant,’ he said challengingly. ‘Doubtless you’ve got it all worked out.’

Adam turned and pointed to his map. ‘Here’s the city of Bath, with the stone quarries to the south and the River Avon flowing close by. And here—’ he pointed again ‘—is the canal that links the Avon to the Thames, offering seventy miles of navigable waterway. You’ll see that the most practical route for a new railway would be from Monkton Sawle straight to the canal as it runs south, just before it swings east out of Somerset.’

There were murmurs and nods of assent. Then Jarvis, who’d been demolishing another portion of venison pie, cut in, ‘I suppose you realise you’ll need to cross my land for the last half-mile of your proposed railway?’

‘In order to reach the canal at Limpley Stoke, yes, I would need to cross your land,’ said Adam. ‘Just as I’d need the consent of the other landholders gathered here today who would be affected. It’s in all our interests, beyond doubt.’

‘Like hell it is,’ growled Jarvis, wiping pastry crumbs off his lips. ‘And I’ve listened to enough of this. I’m off, to another more interesting appointment.’

Adam politely indicated the plate on which stood the remainder of the venison pie. ‘Certainly. But I would hate you to leave hungry. Shall I ask one of the servants to wrap up the rest of that pie so you can take it with you?’

There was a stunned silence. Then someone chuckled and began to applaud; Jarvis’s appetite for a free meal was well known.

Jarvis pushed back his chair angrily. ‘Damn you, Davenant,’ he muttered and hurried from the room, letting the door slam behind him.

Some of the others spoke up then. ‘I’m with you, Adam,’ said Tobias Bartlett firmly.

‘And me.’ ‘Yes, you can count me in on your scheme, Davenant.’ More pledges of support echoed round the room.

But there was still the problem of damned Jarvis; the big map made it all too clear that Jarvis’s acres of land at Limpley Stoke barred the most direct route between Adam’s quarry and the canal. Any other route would add miles to the journey.

‘It’s not as if Jarvis makes much use of that land anyway,’ Adam’s friend Bartlett was grumbling. ‘And surely he realises he could expect a hefty share of your profits if he negotiated with you?’

‘I don’t think,’ said Adam softly, ‘that Jarvis’s motive is based on thoughts of profit.’

Siding with the workers, Davenant? Jarvis had sneered.

Well, sometimes Adam wished he and Jarvis could resolve their differences like common workmen—with their fists. Then he would knock Jarvis’s block off.

He looked thoughtfully down at his strong hands. As a boy at Eton, Adam had briefly been taunted with Miner Tom’s name—until he’d pummelled the sneers from his rash tormentors’ faces. On coming into his fortune he’d learnt to fend off his detractors in equally efficient ways. Both in his manners and attire he was unpretentious but faultless, never letting his cool façade slip. Being mighty rich he was happily accepted by most of society, especially by those who had daughters to marry off.

Jarvis, despite his oily good looks and title, was secretly despised by the ton for his coarse behaviour. If it wasn’t for his damned land, Adam would have been happy to cut him dead—or thump him.

A young housemaid came in just then with more good wine from Adam’s cellars. Adam didn’t partake—he didn’t enjoy fuddling his wits—but went instead to join the group who’d gone to pore again over the map of Somerset.

‘If Jarvis won’t give way, Adam,’ a Somerset neighbour was suggesting, ‘you could take the railway down the valley to Midford then head north—see?—to skirt his estates for the last mile. As I said, I would happily sell some land to you in return for some shares in the project.’

Adam was heartened that so many of these men were, like him, all for progress. ‘We’ll manage without Jarvis somehow,’ he said. ‘Though if we do head north, we’ll have to blast some of the higher contours out of the way, here, and here …’

‘It’ll be worth it,’ said another Somerset landowner eagerly. ‘Davenant, you mentioned the coal mines in the north-east; I’ve heard rumours that Stephenson up in Stockton is planning to transport people as well as coal on his railways! Steam is the future, and this scheme of yours gets my backing, if only to take the sneer off Jarvis’s face. The way he treats his men and his horses is despicable. Thank God he left early, is all I can say. We can make some progress now, Adam … Adam?’

‘Hmm?’

It didn’t happen often, but Adam, by the window, was temporarily distracted. In fact, he couldn’t take his eyes off a remarkably shabby carriage that had just pulled up at the far end of Clarges Street, from which a woman was getting out; a woman wearing a big straw hat and dressed in a startling ensemble of turquoise and pink as striking on her pert figure as icing on a festive cake. She was probably an expensive courtesan, Adam decided, hired by one of his wealthy neighbours for an afternoon of bed sport. Shrugging, he turned back to his guests—then paused again.

Something about her looked familiar. The way she stepped proudly out of that ridiculous carriage. The slenderness of her waist, outlined by her short pink jacket; the swell of her deliciously trim derrière as she stood on tiptoe to say something to her coachman …

She reminded him of that woman on Sawle Down.

The memory made his breathing hitch. She’d insulted him to kingdom come—and he’d stood there and taken it from her! When what he should have done—the thought occurred to him time after time, usually at damnably inconvenient moments like now—was take her in his arms. Hold her close. Drown out those defiant protests of hers with a kiss …

Definitely time to get back to his guests, and his railway.

It was Belle, and she was standing on the pavement at the far end of Clarges Street, arguing with Matt. ‘This will do, Matt!’ she announced firmly after letting herself out. ‘I can walk the rest of the way, I assure you.’

Matt Bellamy, up on his seat, frowned down at her. ‘Here, Mrs Marchmain? But we’re not quite there yet.’

I know, thought Belle tightly. And no way on earth am I going to risk allowing Mr Davenant or his servants to see me arriving in this rickety old coach.

She’d tried already to shut the carriage door, but failed; now she tried again. Blast, it was nearly falling off its hinges.

She’d hoped to make an impression arriving outside Mr Davenant’s house and had asked Matt to borrow something suitable from his brother’s stables. But when Matt had turned up outside her shop at half-past two with this, Belle had been secretly horrified.

And the door still wouldn’t shut. She tried again; this time the handle came off in her hand. Somehow she rammed it back. Matt had jumped down now from the driver’s seat to hold the horses and was simply gaping at the four-storeyed, cream-stuccoed dwellings that surrounded them.

Belle resisted the same impulse to let her own jaw drop. She’d known, of course, that Davenant dwelt in the most exclusive part of London. But the thought of confronting him in one of these magnificent mansions made her heart quail with in her.

It was four days since Edward had called at her shop with his dire news. She’d written twice to Davenant requesting an appointment and heard precisely nothing, so she’d decided there was no alternative but to confront him in his lair. Sternly quelling her apprehension, she’d dressed appropriately and left her shop in Gabrielle’s capable hands.

Of course, appropriate wouldn’t be the word most people would use for her twill silk gown of turquoise and pink or her snug-fitting pink jacket. Appropriate didn’t perhaps apply to her large straw hat adorned with turquoise satin ribbons. Oh, dear. When she’d put on the outfit she’d felt full of confidence. But now she was feeling rather sick.

Davenant’s grandfather made the family fortunes from tin mining, she remembered Edward saying scornfully. But as she gazed down Clarges Street, she felt her breath catch in her throat because the miner’s grandson had done rather well for himself.

Still standing by the rickety coach, she smoothed the sleeves of her jacket, adjusted her straw bonnet and emphasised to Matt a little too brightly, ‘This will most definitely do, Matt. Return the vehicle, will you? I shan’t be wanting you again.’

Big Matt set his face obstinately. ‘Don’t seem right, Mrs Marchmain, leaving you here alone, callin’ on an unknown gentleman.’

Belle very much wanted to say crisply to Matt and to anyone else within hearing, ‘Believe me, Adam Davenant is no gentleman!’ But that would simply make poor Matt even more anxious; so instead she retorted, ‘Matt, I’m a twenty-seven-year-old widow and, as you see, I’m at no risk whatsoever in a neighbourhood like this. There is absolutely no need for you to stay. Besides,’ she added in a moment of inspiration, ‘Gabby will be expecting you. You promised her you’d fix that loose counter in the workshop today, remember?’

As she spoke she was horribly conscious that halfway down Clarges Street a couple of liveried footmen stood on the steps of the biggest house of them all, gossiping in the sun. She’d been aware for some time that the footmen were staring in her direction and felt newly embarrassed by the scruffy equipage and the presence of loyal Matt in his ancient greatcoat and battered hat.

‘Won’t you want escortin’ home afterwards, ma’am?’ frowned Matt.

‘I shall walk,’ Belle announced. ‘I shall enjoy the fresh air.’

‘But …’

Just then the door handle fell off again; she kicked it under the carriage. ‘Matt!’ she hissed. ‘Please—just go!’

Matt, his burly visage expressive, heaved himself back on to the driving seat. Belle found herself urging his departure under her breath rather frantically. Then, lifting her head high, she set off down Clarges Street. The footmen watched her as she drew nearer.

She knew it. She knew, before she reached them.

They were outside Adam Davenant’s house. They were his footmen. Oh, drat and botheration. And they had seen everything; the ancient carriage, Matt, herself kicking the blasted door handle out of sight …

They had sprung to attention, stiff-faced, their arms straight at their sides, but Belle had seen a hint of malicious humour in their eyes.

‘Is this Mr Davenant’s house?’ she asked crisply.

‘This is Mr Davenant’s residence—ma’am.’

‘Then I wish to speak to him, if you please. And before you ask, I have not an appointment, though I have written to him twice informing him that—that it is in his interests to see me.’

The footman’s lips pursed. ‘Mr Davenant happens to have company.’

‘Then I will wait.’

The impudent scoundrel almost sniffed. ‘Very well, madam. I will take you to await Mr Davenant’s convenience.’

‘But …’ Belle bit her lip. She didn’t exactly have a choice, did she? He held the door open; she sailed inside.

Oh, my. This place was incredible. Her entire shop would fit inside this lofty hallway, with its huge chandeliers and sweeping staircase. Money from mining and quarrying, she reminded herself steadily. Money from other men’s back-breaking toil.

The footman—who she reckoned might stop breathing soon if he lifted his nose any higher in disdain—ushered her along the vast hallway to a room that led off it, pointed her inside, then disappeared, closing the door rather firmly on her as he left.

She was too agitated to notice much, beyond the fact that she could hear the sounds of loud male talk and laughter from upstairs. Would the sneering footman trouble to deliver her message? Would the hateful Mr Davenant even bother to leave his rowdy companions and grant her a few minutes’ audience? She paced to and fro. This had to be one of her stupidest ideas ever.

Suddenly she heard a man’s bellow of rage from out in the hallway, then the pattering of feet and the sounds of a girl sobbing. Just as she turned towards the door it burst open and a young maidservant tottered in, clearly in a state of some distress. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

The maid saw Belle. ‘Oh! I beg pardon, miss, I’m sure!’ Knuckling the tears from her eyes, the girl was already turning to hurry away, but Belle grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘What is it, my dear?’

The girl, in her white cap and apron, was shaking. ‘Nothin’. It’s nothin’, miss …’ She hurried out again into the hall, Belle following. But the girl stopped with a low cry when she saw, from the other direction, an extravagantly dressed, fair-haired man prowling towards her with an unpleasant smile on his face. ‘Now, what’s all this, missy?’ he said to the cowering maid. ‘I thought we were having a pleasant conversation. Not trying to run from me, are you?’

This time it was Belle who let out a gasp of shock. She knew this smooth-tongued aristocrat whom some would call handsome. Her stomach clenched. Dear God, if this man was a friend of Davenant’s, things were even worse than she’d thought.

Belle said to the young maid quickly, ‘I will see to this. Go, now.’ The maid scurried off, still sobbing. The man lurched closer—clearly he had been drinking, she could smell it. He was staring down at her. ‘By God. Mrs Marchmain. Well, isn’t this a happy coincidence?’

Belle held her chin high. Loathsome, loathsome man. ‘Not for me, Lord Jarvis, I assure you.’

At first Jarvis scowled. ‘I see your pride is still as damned lofty as ever …’ Then he began to laugh—a bitter, ugly sound. His pale blue eyes were assessing her greedily. ‘Hold a minute. Now, let me think. Here you are, in Davenant’s house—can it be that my money wasn’t enough to tempt you, but Davenant’s is?’

He laid his hand on her shoulder and let it slide to her breast. Belle’s stomach heaved as she knocked it away.

‘You disgust me, my lord,’ she breathed. ‘You did when we last met and not a thing has changed—’

‘What the deuce is going on?’

The man’s voice came from the wide staircase above them. Jarvis jumped away from Belle and looked up angrily at the speaker. ‘Davenant. Damn it, I’d no idea you were there …’

Belle looked up, too. And with this second shock she felt so dizzy that her ribs ached with the need for air. No. Impossible. Please …

The newcomer scarcely glanced at her. It was on Jarvis that his iron gaze rested as he came steadily down the stairs; he was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the sober perfection of black tailcoat and pristine white neckcloth.

He said to Jarvis, ‘I thought you were on your way out a while ago.’

‘And so I was,’ declared Jarvis furiously. ‘Until I was delayed, by an encounter with this woman here.’

‘Not true,’ breathed Belle.

‘Oh, it is true. She insulted me, Davenant, damn it!’

Belle thought she’d been prepared for almost anything. But not for the fact that Adam Davenant, her brother’s enemy, was the man on Sawle Down into whose ears she’d poured insult after insult.

Desperate hope rose in her breast. He might not remember me. He might not recognise me …

Lord Jarvis did though, all too well; Jarvis was still glaring at her, and to him she said as steadily as she could, ‘You claim I insulted you, Lord Jarvis. All I did was tell you to stop pursuing that serving girl because you were frightening her out of her wits.’ Belle met his glare squarely, though she truly wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

‘I’ll escort you to the door, Jarvis,’ she heard Davenant saying.

The two men were moving away from her along the hall; she saw Jarvis pausing by the open doorway, still muttering angrily to Davenant, jabbing his finger in her direction. Dear God, she could just imagine what foul lies he’d be concocting.

‘Good day to you, Jarvis,’ Davenant was saying.

Jarvis gave a swift nod. ‘Good day to you, Davenant. We’ll speak soon, I’ve no doubt.’ The footman closed the door after him and Adam Davenant was coming back towards her. The footman hadn’t bothered to ask her name; there was a chance, just a chance she might still somehow be able to wriggle out of this …

‘Well,’ Mr Davenant said softly. ‘So we meet again, Mrs Marchmain.’

Her last hope died.