Читать книгу An Ideal Husband? - Michelle Styles, Michelle Styles - Страница 7

May 1852—Newcastle upon Tyne

Why was it that some men only understood the application of a frying pan to the head? And why was it that one often met such men at balls when all one could carry in one’s reticule was a hair pin?

Sophie Ravel glared at Sir Vincent Putney and took a step backwards, narrowly avoiding his outstretched hand. Perhaps this contrived confrontation of Sir Vincent Putney in a deserted conservatory was not one of her better ideas, but Sophie knew it was the only way to help one of her oldest friends avoid a fate worse than death. Tonight was the final opportunity to carry out her scheme and prevent Cynthia from being sacrificed on the altar of her parents’ ambition.

‘Not one step further, Sir Vincent.’ Sophie raised her reticule, ready to swat his hand away.

‘I have no desire to see you fall, Miss Ravel.’ The oily voice grated over her nerves. ‘I know how precious you are to my dear Miss Johnson. She sang your praises for weeks before we journeyed to Newcastle. Will Miss Johnson be joining us in the conservatory? Is that what she meant by a surprise?’

Sophie’s eyes flew to the door. She’d been meticulous in her planning. Every eventuality covered, every solitary one except the one actually unfolding.

She should know the answer to the question, but her mind was a blank. She hated lying; avoiding the full truth was a necessity in certain circumstances.

‘Miss Johnson has another matter to attend to before she can come to any conservatory.’ Sophie straightened the skirt of her ball gown so that the cascades of blonde lace fell neatly once again. The tiny gesture restored her confidence. Precise planning would once again triumph and produce the perfect outcome. ‘I’m sure she will appear when circumstances permit it.’

‘Said with such a disdainful look.’ Sir Vincent hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat. ‘Despite your airs and graces, Miss Ravel, you have nothing to be proud about. I know all about your parentage and how your father acquired his considerable fortune.’

Sophie fought against the inclination to laugh. The man’s accent was so entirely ridiculous, proclaiming about her parentage as if she was some brood mare.

She backed up so that her bottom touched one of the shelves. A particularly large fern nodded over her left shoulder.

‘I suspect you have heard lies and half-truths.’ She feinted to the left, only to be stopped when he placed his paw on the railing. ‘Now, will you listen to what I have to say? Or are we going to have to play “Here we go round the mulberry bush” all night?’

He waggled his eyebrows, but did not remove his hand.

In the distance she could hear the faint strains of the orchestra as they struck up a polka. All she had to do was to calmly return to the ballroom after delivering her message. As long as she refused to panic, she was the mistress of the situation. Icy calm and a well-tilted chin. Poise.

‘I regret to inform you, Sir Vincent, that Miss Johnson has other plans for this evening.’ She ducked under his arm and wished she had chosen somewhere else besides the deserted conservatory to impart the news. Good ideas had a way of turning bad if not properly thought through. She should know that by now. ‘Indeed, she has other plans for the rest of her life.’

‘Other plans?’ Sir Vincent cocked his head and Sophie could almost see the slow clogs of his brain moving. ‘Miss Johnson arrived with her parents and me only a short while ago in my carriage. I know what her plans are. Her father has accepted my suit. They are watching her to ensure her reputation remains unsoiled. We are to be married come a week Saturday.’

‘Her note. Miss Johnson asked me to give it to you once we were in the conservatory.’

He shook his ponderous head. ‘Mr Johnson and I have come to an arrangement. He knows what is good for him. His wealth will go a long way towards restoring my family home. He saw sense in the match in the end.’

Sophie’s stomach revolted. What she had considered Cynthia’s fevered imaginings were utterly correct. Sir Vincent had used blackmail and threats to achieve his ends.

Since Cynthia’s father had agreed to the marriage, Sir Vincent or her parents had hung about Cynthia like limpets. It was only at this ball that Cynthia stood any chance of escape. Sophie had brought the valise in her carriage. Hopefully Cynthia and her true love were now using the carriage to go straight to the railway station. The last train for Carlisle left in a half-hour. Then, at Carlisle, they would change trains and go to Liverpool, catching a boat to America leaving on tomorrow afternoon’s tide. She’d left nothing to chance.

‘Read the note, Sir Vincent, before you say anything we both might regret.’

He froze and his pig-like eyes narrowed, before snatching the note from her fingers. His lips formed the words as he read the note. The colour drained from his face.

‘You’re serious. Miss Johnson has jilted me.’

‘She intends to marry someone else, someone far more congenial.’

He screwed up the note. ‘We shall see about that! Her father has agreed to the match. He wants my name and status.’

Sophie rolled her eyes. What did he expect after the way he had behaved, cavorting with all manner of loose women, being insufferably rude to Cynthia and, worst of all, boasting about it to members of his club? ‘I believe it is Miss Johnson’s wishes that are paramount here. It is her life, rather than her father’s or her mother’s.’

She only hoped some day she’d meet a man who would make her want to forget her life and responsibility, but who would also be her friend. Why wasn’t she deserving of a Great Romance? All of her friends had and all she’d discovered was alternative uses for hatpins and frying pans!

‘You gambled and you have lost, Sir Vincent. Here is where I say goodbye.’

‘We shall see about that!’ He threw the crumpled note down on the ground.

‘You are too late. Miss Johnson has eloped.’

‘Scotland, it will be Scotland. Her father should never have come to Newcastle.’

‘You will look like a fool if you go after her. Do you wish to be taken for a fool, Sir Vincent?’

Sir Vincent froze.

Sophie breathed easier. Nothing would happen to her now, but she could buy Cynthia a few more precious minutes.

‘I’m no fool, Miss Ravel.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Sophie cleared her throat. ‘A notice will appear in The Times and a number of local papers in the morning, stating that your engagement is off. You will have to find another bride, Sir Vincent.’ Sophie started towards the door. ‘It is time I returned to the dance. I have a full dance card this evening.’

‘This is all your fault!’ He stepped in front of her, blocking her path. ‘You will have to pay, Miss Ravel. You have done me out of a fortune. Nobody does that to me!’

‘My fault? I’m merely the messenger.’ An uneasy feeling crept down Sophie’s spine. He still stood between her and the door to the ballroom. She needed to get away from this situation as quickly as possible before something untoward happened. Carefully she measured the distance to the outside door of the conservatory with her eyes. It was possible, but only as a last resort. She’d much prefer to walk back into the ballroom rather than going through the French doors. ‘And having delivered my message, I shall get back to the ball. I doubt we need ever acknowledge each other again.’

‘You are in it up to your pretty neck.’ Sir Vincent turned a bright puce colour and shook his fist in her face. ‘You will be sorry you ever crossed me, Miss Ravel. I will not rest until I’ve ruined your life.’

Sophie tapped her foot. ‘Cease to threaten me this instant. You have no hold over me. Let me pass.’

His hand shot out, capturing her arm. ‘I am not through with you.’

‘Unhand me, sir. You overstep the mark!’ Sophie struggled against his hold.

‘Can you afford a scandal, Miss Ravel, despite your wealth? You may wear your ice-cold hauteur like armour, but do you truly think that will save you?’ His vice-like hand tightened on her upper arm.

‘I am well aware of what society requires. My reputation is spotless. You cannot touch me.’ Sophie twisted her wrist first one way and then the next. She had been naïve in the extreme when she had consented to elope with Sebastian Cawburn several years ago. Luckily, her guardian Robert Montemorcy and the woman who became his wife had intervened and had the matter successfully suppressed. Every night she said an extra prayer of thanks that Henrietta Montemorcy had entered her life.

‘Yet you allowed yourself to be alone with a man in a conservatory. Tsk, tsk, Miss Ravel.’

Thinking about Henri redoubled Sophie’s determination. She brought her arm sharply downwards, broke free and pulled the French doors to the garden open. ‘This is where we part.’

As she stepped down, she heard the distinct sound of ripping lace. One more reason to loathe Sir Vincent—she had really loved her new gown, particularly the blonde lace. She didn’t stop to examine the extent of the tear, but picked up her skirts and scurried out into the garden. The cool evening air enveloped her and she moved away from the light and into the velvet darkness.

Sophie pressed her hands to her eyes and tried to think. What next? She’d circle around the house and go back into the house through the terrace. Easy enough. With a bit of luck, no one would notice. She could make her way to the ladies’ withdrawing room, do the necessary repairs and then plead a headache and have a carriage called. Thankfully, her stepmother had been unwell tonight and so it would be all the explanation required.

Her foot squelched in a muddy pool and cold seeped through into her foot. Another pair of dancing slippers ruined and these ones were her favourite blue-satin ones.

Behind her, she heard footsteps. Sir Vincent called her name. He was closer to the house than she. He was going to head her off before the ballroom, Sophie realised, and a cold fist closed around her insides.

She could imagine the scandal if she suddenly appeared dishevelled and escorted by Sir Vincent. She knew precisely what happened in these sorts of situations and Sir Vincent was not in any mood to be a gentleman. The whispers would reverberate through Newcastle society before morning—the proud Miss Ravel has slipped.

It wouldn’t stop there—the rumours would spread throughout society within a fortnight. She faced the very real prospect of ruin. Despite her earlier brave words, could she be sure of her stepmother’s support? Being part of society meant everything to her stepmother. Unfortunately the Montemorcys were out of the country. She was truly on her own … this time.

She turned sharply and headed out into the dark of the garden. Two could play a waiting game.

‘You can be a fool, Sophia Ravel,’ she muttered to herself, stepping into another puddle. Her intricate hairstyle of small looped braids combined with curls tumbled down about her shoulders. ‘Would Cynthia have done this for you? Or would she have found an excuse at the last moment? How could you have forgotten the pencil incident at school!’

Sophie gritted her teeth. It was too late to worry about what-might-have-been.

Behind her, she heard the sound of Sir Vincent’s heavy breathing. ‘I will find you. I know you are in the garden. I do so like games of hide and go seek, Miss Ravel.’

In the gloom of a May evening in Newcastle, she could see his black outline. She was going to lose, and lose badly.

She pivoted and ran blindly back towards the house and bumped straight into a well-muscled chest.

‘Where are you going?’ a deep rich baritone said as strong arms put her away from the unyielding chest. ‘Are you running away from the ball? Has midnight struck already?’

Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. All might not be lost. Silently she offered up a prayer that this man would be a friend rather than a foe.

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘You must help me. For the love of God, you must save me or else I shall be ruined.’

Richard Crawford, Viscount Bingfield, regarded the dishevelled blonde woman in his arms. The last thing he wanted or needed was to save some Cinderella-in-distress. But what choice did he have? He could hardly turn his back on her, not after he’d heard her ragged plea.

‘If it is in my power, I will help.’

Her trembling stopped. ‘Do you mean that?’

‘I do. Are you some escaping Cinderella, fearful of missing her fairy godmother’s deadline?’

‘Hardly that.’ Her hand tried to pin one of her braids up, but only succeeded in loosening more of the blonde curls. ‘I’m not running away from the ball. I am running towards it.’

‘Towards the ball? That dress?’ Even in the gloom, Richard could see the rips and tears. A twig stuck to the top frill of her blouse. He pointed and hoped she was aware of the scandal which she was about to be engulfed in.

‘I loved this dress.’ Her hand brushed away the twig. ‘Really loved and adored it. It is irreparable.’

Her lavender scent rose around him. All his instincts told him to crush her to him and hold her until her shaking stopped, but that would be less than wise. The last thing he needed was to be engulfed in a scandal and for his father to realise he was in Newcastle rather than in London. His father, the Marquess of Hallington, was in ill health. In fact, he had only now begun to recover from the last fit at the end of April. With each passing week, his father seemed to slip more and more into a jealous rage against his mother and the scandal in which she had engulfed the family, even though those events had occurred many years ago.

Richard knew he shouldn’t have come to Newcastle, but equally he knew he had to vet the man who had captured his half-sister’s affections. His mother was untrustworthy on this matter and he had also taken the opportunity to once again sort out his mother’s finances.

He forced his arms to let the young woman go and put her from him. ‘Tell me quietly and quickly what you need and I will see what I can do about it.’

‘I need to go back to the ball.’

‘Looking like that? Brushing away one twig won’t mend the ripped lace. You must know what will happen to you. Shall I call a carriage?’

Her hand instinctively tried to smooth her rumpled ball dress. ‘Very well, then. I need to get back into the house and go to the ladies’ withdrawing room where I can repair the damage. I do have my leaving arrangements in order.’

‘It should be simple a matter to walk straight back.’

‘Not so simple.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Someone is after me. He is determined to ruin me.’

Richard regarded the woman. The back of his neck pricked. He should walk away now. ‘It is hard to ruin someone who does not wish to be ruined. Practically impossible.’

She gave a half-shrug. ‘I was foolish and failed to consider the possibility. I fear we have not been introduced, but you must accept my assurance that I am normally considered to be extremely reliable and sensible in such matters.’

‘Viscount Bingfield.’ He inclined his head. ‘And I am most definitely received everywhere.’

‘I will take your word for it.’ Her voice dripped with ice cold.

‘Miss Ravel. Miss Ravel. Where are you? I will find you. You can’t hide for ever. And then you will see what happens to women who try to cross me!’

Richard’s jaw clenched. There was no mistaking the grating voice of Putney! The man was a bounder and a cad of the first order. He’d detested the man ever since that first term at Eton where Putney had put his hand up the maid’s skirt and lied about it, causing the poor girl to be dismissed. Richard had sneaked out to see if she was all right and then the newspaper stories started. Then there was Oxford and the tragedy of Mary. Again he could not prove Putney had a hand in it, but he had encountered Putney in the street the day before he’d been called in front of the Master. Even now he could remember the furtive smile Putney gave.

‘Are you trying to hide from Sir Vincent Putney, Miss Ravel?’

She gave a quick nod of her head. ‘I wish to return to the ball and avoid a scandal. I’ve done nothing wrong. That is all, Lord Bingfield. Once back under the chandeliers, all this will cease to be anything but a bad dream.’

‘In that state? Scandal will reverberate throughout the land. Your name will be on everyone’s lips as they attempt to work out how this happened and believe the worst.’

She glanced down and fluffed out her skirt. ‘A few repairs need to be made. I slipped in the dark. Twice. I barely know the man. I was helping a friend out and matters failed to go as planned.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I was helping a friend elope.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘My friend was engaged to Sir Vincent, but desired to end the relationship against her father’s wishes. She loved an American. I merely facilitated the elopement. It went like clockwork except …’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Quick, Sir Vincent is coming. I need to get away from him.’

Richard reacted instinctively. He swung her back into the shadows, up against the hedge and stood between Miss Ravel and the light.

‘Follow my lead and keep silent,’ he murmured against her lavender-scented hair. ‘We don’t have time.’

‘Your lead?’ she asked, attempting to peer around him. Her skirts brushed his leg. ‘Should I trust you?’

‘Do you have a choice?’ He took a glimpse down at Miss Ravel, seeing her clearly for the first time.

Her lips hovered tantalisingly few inches beneath his. Her worried eyes looked up into his, trusting him to get this right and protect her. Truly Cinderella after the ball, missing a slipper and in need of a prince.

Richard resisted the urge to crush her to him. Another time and another place he would have given in to temptation, but this closeness was far from a prelude to seduction, it was instead a means to prevent Miss Ravel’s ruin.

‘With any luck Putney will walk on without even noticing anything beyond a man and a woman in the shadows. He will expect to find you alone. Foolproof.’

Footsteps resounded behind them. Every nerve went on alert. Silently he prayed this action would be enough.

Miss Ravel stiffened and shrank back further against the hedge. The heavy footsteps went on past. The nervous energy drained out of Richard’s shoulders. They had done it! Miss Ravel would be safe. All that was needed was for him to step back.

His feet refused to move. Instead he lifted his hand and traced the outline of her jaw. Her skin quivered underneath the tips of his fingers and her lips parted, inviting him.

‘Dear Richard, imagine! You should be in the ballroom, rather than in the garden,’ a heart-sinkingly familiar woman’s voice said. ‘I shall have to tell your father that we met. He was asking after you at lunch last week. I had understood you were in London. Does he know you journeyed to Newcastle?’

Richard knew that things had suddenly become much worse. The most fearsome of his aunts had arrived.

He gave Miss Ravel an apologetic look and swung around.

‘Aunt Parthenope, what an unexpected pleasure.’ Richard made a slight bow. ‘I would have called on you earlier today if I’d known you, too, were in Newcastle. I would have thought you’d be in London for the start of the Season.’

‘The Season does not properly begin until after Queen Charlotte’s ball. Plenty of time remains to sort out the hanger-ons and no hopers from the cream of this year’s débutantes.’ His aunt gave a loud sniff. ‘You should have known that I always come to Newcastle at this time of year. I have done for years—to visit your grandmother’s grave on the anniversary of her death. In any case, the train makes travel so convenient these days. It takes less than a day. Imagine—when I was a girl, it took more than a week by post carriage.’

‘We truly do live in an age of miracles, Aunt,’ Richard murmured, wondering if his mother was aware of his aunt’s habit and why she hadn’t warned him of the possibility.

‘Why are you out in the garden, Richard?’

‘Crowded ballrooms can cause claustrophobia. I wanted a breath of fresh air.’ He moved towards his aunt and started to lead her away from where Miss Ravel stood, hidden in the shadows, touching his fingers to his lips before he turned away. Immediately Miss Ravel shrank back against the hedge.

‘You know how it is, Aunt,’ he said in an expansive tone. ‘One minute, one is waltzing and the next, one needs to be away from the crowd. You have often remarked on how crowded these balls are, not like the days when you were a young girl.’

Sophie hardly dared to breathe. She could see what Lord Bingfield was about to do—lead his aunt and her party away and leave her to make her own way back to the house. It was far too late for regrets. She had to hope that Lord Bingfield’s scheme would work.

‘And this is why you were out in the garden, Nephew? A sudden and inexplicable need for fresh air? Do not seek to flannel me. Your father did explain about his ultimatum to you at luncheon. While I might not agree with it on principle, I should remind you, he is a man of his word.’

Sophie pursed her lips and wondered what ultimatum Lord Bingfield’s father had issued. One of two things—women or gambling debts. Possibly both. Why would the man she begged for help have to turn out to be a dishonourable rake, rather than the honourable person she’d hoped? Her luck was truly out tonight.

‘My father has no bearing on this matter, Aunt.’ Lord Bingfield waved an impatient hand. ‘I know what he said and he must do as he sees fit. I make my own way in the world.’

‘You were always a reckless youth, Richard.’

‘We should return to the ballroom, Aunt,’ Lord Bingfield said, starting forwards and grasping his aunt’s elbow so that she was turned away from Sophie. ‘I find I am quite refreshed after a short turn. You must tell me all the news. How does my father fare? Does his latest pig show promise?’

Sophie flattened her back against the hedge. The prickles dug into her bodice. Silently she bid them to go.

‘And your charming companion? Or do you wish to continue blathering fustian nonsense, thinking I would overlook her?’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt gave her nephew a rap on the sleeve with her fan. ‘You do not fool me one little bit, Richard. I know how this game is played.’

‘Charming companion?’

‘You do know her name, I hope, Nephew. You were standing far too close to her to be complete strangers. However, with you, nothing surprises me.’

Sophie’s heart sank as Lord Bingfield’s aunt confirmed her growing fear. Lord Bingfield was not safe in carriages or indeed anywhere.

‘Aunt, you wrong me dreadfully,’ Lord Bingfield protested. ‘Name one instance where I have behaved dishonourably.’

‘I do declare it’s Miss Ravel.’ Sir Vincent loomed out of the darkness. In the gloom, Sophie could make out his smug grin. Her misery was complete. He intended to cause mischief, serious mischief, and she had inadvertently given him the opportunity, wrapped and tied up with a bow like a parcel. ‘I am surprised that a woman such as yourself is out here in the night air, Miss Ravel, with a man such as the notorious Lord Bingfield. What will your guardian say?’

‘My stepmother is aware of where I am and who I am with.’ Sophie kept her chin up. It was the truth. Her stepmother knew Sophie was at the ball, not her precise location and she had approved of the company. Her stepmother trusted her. She refused to allow Sir Vincent to imply that something untoward had happened. But it was poor luck that Lord Bingfield seemed to have a less-than-illustrious reputation himself.

‘You’re Miss Ravel? Sophie Ravel? The heiress who came out over four years ago?’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt squawked. ‘It would appear, Richard, that you have taken your father’s words to heart after all. Impressive.’

‘Everything, I assure you, is quite appropriate, Aunt,’ Lord Bingfield said. ‘It would be wrong of me to allow a lady such as Miss Ravel to wander about the garden on her own. Who knows the sort of ruffian she might encounter?’

He gave Sir Vincent a hard look. Sophie’s heart did a little flip. Unsuitable or not, Lord Bingfield shared her opinion of Sir Vincent. He was the only person standing between her and utter ruin.

‘It was your chivalry coming to the fore, Nephew,’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt pronounced. ‘All is now clear. I had feared you had decided to take after your mother’s side of the family.’

A muscle jumped in Lord Bingfield’s cheek and his hand clenched in a fist.

‘I believe Miss Ravel wishes to return to the ball, now that this little misunderstanding has been cleared up,’ he said in glacial tones.

‘Has it?’ Sir Vincent asked in a weasel-like tone. ‘You were in a close embrace! Did you see it, Lady Parthenope? It was quite clear from where I stood. And I know what a stickler you are for propriety and how everyone at Almack’s looks to your judgement.’

‘You were standing rather close to my nephew, Miss Ravel,’ Lord Bingfield’s aunt pronounced. ‘Young ladies need to be wary of their reputations at all times.’

‘Your attire is a little more dishevelled than a simple turn about the garden would suggest. How did you manage to tear your dress?’ Sir Vincent continued with a smirk.

Sophie winced. Lord Bingfield’s aunt would be someone of importance. Seeds of doubt and suspicions, that was what Sir Vincent intended. Little by little until she had no reputation left.

Her stomach churned. There was no way she could explain the current state of her attire away. She gave Lord Bingfield a pleading look as she searched her brain for a good excuse.

‘I do take offence at having Miss Ravel’s attire discussed in such intimate terms, Putney,’ Lord Bingfield said, stepping between her and Sir Vincent. His stance looked more like a pugilist preparing to enter the ring than a man at a ball.

Sophie released a breath. Despite her earlier fear, Lord Bingfield had kept his promise. He was protecting her.

‘Why?’ Sir Vincent stuck out his chest. ‘I merely state what everyone will be thinking when they spot Miss Ravel.’

Lord Bingfield cleared his throat. ‘Miss Ravel is doing me the honour of considering my proposal and, until she has time, discretion is the best option. You did not see anything untoward and I would refrain from mentioning something you might live to regret.’