Читать книгу Dauntsey Park: The Last Rake In London - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 7

June 1908

Jack Kestrel was looking for a woman.

Not just any woman, but a female so unscrupulous, greedy and manipulative that she would blackmail a man who was dying.

He had been assured that she would be at the art exhibition at the Wallace Collection tonight, but he did not know what she looked like. Whilst he tried to locate the curator to arrange an introduction, Jack stood at the top of the staircase and scanned the crowd that had flocked to the exhibition of portraits and miniatures. Most people were standing in small groups in the conservatory and the hall, chattering, drinking champagne, their purpose not so much to view the paintings as to see and be seen. The gentlemen were in evening dress, the ladies vivid in rainbow-coloured gowns and picture hats, their diamonds rivalling the glitter of the chandeliers.

Jack turned and walked slowly along the corridor that led to the Grand Gallery. His cousin, the Duke of Kestrel, had loaned some portraits to the exhibition tonight including two very fine paintings by George Romney of Jack’s great-grandparents, Justin Duke of Kestrel and his wife. Jack was curious to see them; the last time he had viewed them they had been tucked in a dark corner of the family seat, Kestrel Court in Suffolk, in dire need of a clean. Buffy the present duke was an unashamed philistine about the arts and saw his collection as nothing more than an asset to sell as the income he gained from his land dwindled. Only the previous week, Jack had loaned Buffy a thousand pounds to prevent him from sending his entire collection of Stubbs’s racing paintings to Sotheby’s.

There was only one person viewing the Kestrel portraits in the small drawing room. They were beautifully displayed and lit from below by a cunning arrangement of oil lamps. The same soft light that illuminated the portraits of Jack’s ancestors also shone on the woman standing before them, giving radiance to her face beneath the wide brim of her hat, making her complexion glow like cream and roses and shadowing her eyes with mysterious darkness. She was wearing a beautiful peach silk evening gown that draped sinuously over her body and her huge black picture hat had matching peach ribbons and roses on the brim.

Jack stopped in the doorway, his eyes resting on her face. For a moment he felt an odd sensation in his chest, almost as though she had reached out and physically touched him. It was not a feeling he had ever experienced before. Apart from a disastrous entanglement in his youth, he had kept his relationships with women a simple and straightforward business of mutual physical convenience. Not one of them had made the breath catch in his throat or his heart miss a beat. He decided to ignore the sudden and disturbing stir of emotions within him and crossed the room to her side.

She did not turn. She seemed engrossed in the portrait of Justin Kestrel, with his dark Regency good looks, the rakish smile on his lips and the hint of humour in his dangerous eyes.

‘Do you like the portrait?’

She turned at last at Jack’s softly spoken question and her beautiful hazel eyes widened as they went from his face to the portrait and back again. He saw her mouth turn up in a reluctant smile.

‘He was very handsome,’ she said drily. ‘The resemblance is striking, as no doubt you are aware.’

Jack bowed. ‘He was my great-grandfather. Jack Kestrel, entirely at your service, madam.’

Her dark brows lifted slightly, but she did not give him a name in return and Jack knew it was deliberate. It was also unusual. Very few women refused Jack Kestrel’s acquaintance. His looks generally gained him their interest even before they learned how rich he was.

‘And this—’ her attention had turned to the portrait of Justin’s duchess, vivid and bejewelled in emerald satin and with the most glorious auburn hair ‘—must be your great-grandmother.’

‘Indeed,’ Jack said. ‘Lady Sally Saltire. She was reputed to be as clever as she was beautiful. Half of London society was at her feet. In Regency times she was known as an Incomparable.’

‘How marvelous.’ His companion seemed amused. ‘It is unusual to hear of a clever woman who did not trouble to hide her intelligence. I admire her for it.’

‘I do not believe that she cared what others thought of her,’ Jack said. ‘And her husband adored her. He said that she was more than a match for him in every way.’ He laughed. ‘She could certainly shoot straighter than he could.’

‘A useful accomplishment,’ she agreed. She leaned closer to the pictures to admire a small square portrait of a little girl in a white dress. The lamplight caught on the strands of tawny brown hair beneath her hat and burnished them to gold, setting the shadows dancing against her cheek.

‘Is this their daughter?’ She asked.

Jack nodded. ‘My Great-Aunt Ottoline.’

‘Is she still alive?’

‘Very much so,’ Jack said feelingly.

A spark of mischief lit her eyes. ‘I imagine she must be quite a character.’ She turned to face him and once again Jack felt the impact of that clear hazel gaze. Something shifted within him, something poignant and unexpected, like a hand squeezing his heart.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘it has been a pleasure making the acquaintance of your dangerous ancestors, Mr Kestrel.’

She was leaving, and Jack was determined to stop her. He wanted to know much, much more about her. He was not going to let her go yet.

‘Is art a passion of yours?’ He asked.

She shook her head. ‘No more than an interest, like music. My work is my passion.’

Jack slanted a look down at her. He was surprised. She did not look like a New Woman, the type of female who was independent and earned her own living as a shop assistant or factory worker. She looked too glossy, pampered and rich. He was about to ask her what she did for a living when she smiled at him, a luscious smile, but quite without promise of any sort.

‘If you will excuse me, Mr Kestrel, I think I shall go and look at the Cosway miniatures now. They are accounted extremely pretty.’

‘Then may I escort you to the Grand Gallery?’ Jack asked.

After a brief second’s hesitation, she shook her head. ‘No, I thank you. I am here with a friend. I should go and find him.’

‘What was he thinking of to leave you alone?’ Jack asked.

She flashed him a smile. ‘I am able to take care of myself. And he genuinely is no more than a friend.’

‘I am pleased to hear it.’

She sighed. ‘You should not be. I do not seek to further our acquaintance, Mr Kestrel. I am too old a hand to have my head turned by a handsome face.’

She did not look a day above five and twenty, but Jack thought she sounded world-weary. And he was too experienced to push her too hard. That way he would lose all that he had gained.

‘At the least, tell me your name,’ he said. He took her hand. She was wearing long black silk evening gloves that reached to her elbow. They felt deliciously smooth beneath his fingers and for a moment he thought he felt her hand tremble in his. Her long black lashes flickered down, hiding her expression.

‘I am Sally Bowes,’ she said. ‘Good evening, Mr Kestrel.’ She smiled, withdrew her hand from his, turned and walked away down the corridor towards the Grand Gallery. The light shimmered on her peach gown and the voluptuous curves beneath.

Sally Bowes. The shock and disbelief hit Jack squarely in the stomach like a blow. Unscrupulous, greedy, manipulative … A woman who would blackmail a dying man … He knew now what she did for a living. She was a nightclub hostess who used the weakness of men against them to extort money.

Yet the information was counter to every instinct he possessed about the woman he had been talking with. They had only spoken for a few moments and yet she had entranced him. He did not usually make errors of judgement of that magnitude. And along with the shock he felt something deeper, something that felt like disappointment.

He took an impulsive step after her, but then saw a gentleman join her, offering her his arm, and saw her smile up into his face. A pang of jealously pierced him, all the sharper for being so unexpected. He recognised the man; Gregory, Lord Holt, was a very old friend of his. He wondered if Holt was Miss Bowes’s next intended victim.

Jack straightened. Tomorrow he would seek out Miss Bowes again and tell her in no uncertain terms that her attempts to extort money from his uncle had to cease. He would warn her that, in tangling with him, she was engaging a very dangerous enemy indeed.