Читать книгу Sapphire - Rosemary Rogers, Rosemary Rogers - Страница 10

One month later

“Lord Wessex, so glad to make your acquaintance at last.”

Blake turned from the open window in the law offices that looked out on the busy London street, and settled his gaze on the short, stout barrister walking toward him. “Mr. Stowe,” he said sharply, ignoring the barrister’s thrust out hand, “I am not accustomed to waiting.”

“My apologies, my lord.” Lowering his head in a cordial bow, Stowe continued. “There was a distraught widow on my doorstep this morning. I couldn’t turn her out.”

“We had an appointment, nine sharp.” Blake brushed past Mr. Stowe and the bespectacled clerk seated uneasily behind a high mahogany desk.

“Right this way, my lord.” Stowe bustled by, leading him down a short hall into a spacious office paneled with dark walnut wainscoting and two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound legal volumes. “Please have a seat.”

Blake glanced down at the red leather wingback chair in front of an elegantly carved walnut desk large enough to accommodate a small dinner party. The barrister had good taste, at least. Blake had a desk similar to this in his own office back in Boston. “A Dresden Partners pedestal desk,” he said, nodding with approval. “Ebonized molding, very fine.”

“Th-thank you, my lord.” Stowe hesitated, seemingly startled by Blake’s compliment. Then he walked behind his desk, flipping back the tails of his black serge coat, and waited to take his seat until Blake sat first. “It was my father’s, God rest his soul.”

Blake eased into the chair and caught a faint scent of good French tobacco on the red leather, a scent as tantalizing as a woman’s. It was a chair he wouldn’t mind adding to his own collection. He’d lived in the mansion he’d built in the exclusive Beacon Hill area of Boston for nearly two years, but it was still not entirely furnished. He liked to choose his furnishings carefully, taking consideration with each and every chair, table and chest of drawers. It was how he preferred to acquire all of his possessions.

“Your father was obviously a prosperous man, and I can see you have followed in his footsteps.” Blake sat back, pinched the fine pleats of his black wool trousers and crossed one leg over the other. “But your firm did not come recommended by my associates here in Great Britain. No one had even heard of you when I placed inquiries. Have you the sense it takes a man to get out of the driving rain? I haven’t the time for incompetence.”

The barrister offered a hesitant smile, obviously unsure how to take measure of Blake Thixton, the new Earl of Wessex.

“I can assure you, my lord, that I am quite competent.” Stowe brought his hands together, settling into his chair. “And now the estate can be settled.” He picked up a pair of round-framed gold reading glasses and pushed them onto his nose before reaching for a pile of documents on his desk. “As stated in my letter, some months ago when Lord Wessex died without issue, his chattels were passed on to you, his closest heir by blood as the grandson of his uncle.”

Blake’s gaze drifted beyond Stowe to the shelves of books behind him. “I never knew Lord Wessex, sir, and while I was born in London, my parents immigrated to America before I was old enough to walk.”

“Funny how that is, sometimes. Makes no difference to the law, though. By the laws of English entailment, you are the legal heir of the late Earl of Wessex.” He skimmed the document written with great flourishes as if it was the first time he had seen it. “There is the title, of course.”

Blake frowned. “Of little use in America. My business acquaintances are more interested in the volume of their merchandise I can ship than what titles I hold in society in London.” Tenting his fingers, he settled his gaze on the barrister.

“The title stands throughout the world, my lord. Many Englishmen now living abroad—”

“What is there besides the title? I’m not impressed with the pretenses of society on any continent. Is there land, Mr. Stowe? Land is something that lasts. Are there coal mines? Gold bullion, perhaps?”

Stowe’s eyes darted upward, over the edge of the document and then quickly down again. “Land, yes.” He cleared his throat. “A lovely town house on the fashionable West Side of London. Very nice. I had the pleasure of attending several balls there and more than one card game.”

“I don’t gamble,” Blake said, unsmiling.

“And a country estate in…hmm, let me see.” Stowe set a page aside and began to skim the next. “Yes, here it is. Cedar Mount, in…Surrey.” He continued to study the paper in front of him but said nothing more.

Blake allowed a full minute of silence to pass, then another, thinking about the many business ventures he’d left behind in Boston to come to London and claim this inheritance. He’d have wasted six weeks’ time on this trip by the time all was said and done, and now Stowe was going to tell him that the picture he had painted in his letters was not quite as rosy as he had suggested. Blake shifted his gaze back to Stowe. It was beginning to seem that the only good thing about this trip was the fact that he’d gotten away from Clarice for a few weeks.

“The money, Stowe,” Blake said, making an effort to keep his temper in check.

“Two hundred fifty-two pound.”

“That’s it? That’s all the money Wessex had when he died?”

“Of debt. He was two hundred fifty-two pounds in debt.”

“Repeat that last remarkable phrase one last time.”

“Of debt…”

“Of debt?” Blake exploded, coming out of the chair and slamming both palms on the desktop.

Stowe blinked but did not startle. Blake had to admire him for that. There weren’t many men who could look him in the eyes after one of his outbursts.

“But the properties are fine ones,” Stowe offered.

Blake sat down again, this time only on the edge of the leather chair. “I don’t have time to sell real estate. I told you my trip would be brief. I have a shipping business to run in Boston.”

“I…I’m certain arrangements could be made…I could sell the properties for you or you could hire a land broker, but…but there is the issue of the family.”

“The family? What family?”

Blake presently had no family of his own and found the entire concept bothersome in general. He knew marriage was inevitable and he did hope to have a son one day to pass the business to, but so far he had done an admirable job of sidestepping any serious relationships—including one with his closest business associate’s eldest daughter, Clarice. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women; he adored them. He adored them elegantly dressed for the dinner table and then elegantly undressed in his bed, preferably not speaking. He also liked maids, cooks, seamstresses, and even preferred them because they never possessed any expectations beyond their own immediate pleasure. They had no delusions that a smile or a pleasant word or a tumble in bed would lead to a marriage proposal and a mansion on the bay.

“I have no family!” Blake fumed.

“The late earl’s family, the Countess of Wessex and her three daughters by her late first husband—Lady Camille Stillmore, Lady Portia Stillmore and Lady Alma Stillmore.”

“You apparently know the family well enough to rattle off the names without looking them up, which means the countess has been here to see you. Perhaps she was even the distraught widow on your doorstep this morning? And the late earl made no arrangements for his wife and stepdaughters, should he predecease them?” Blake asked, again barely keeping his temper balanced.

“My lord,” Stowe said delicately, “rarely do men think they are going to die. Some even fear that if they do make preparations, it will hurry them on their way.”

Blake smiled and looked away. It was truer than he or any man cared to admit. His own father, a cold, hard man but an astute entrepreneur, had died without leaving a will or any means to support his wife, Blake’s stepmother. Had it not been for Blake, she would have been penniless and on the street, because like his English father before him, Josiah Thixton had left all he possessed to his eldest. Not that Blake begrudged his stepmother one penny of his inheritance—he saw that she continued to live in the manner in which she was accustomed until she died—but he had always wondered why his father had not guaranteed that.

Blake looked across the desk to find the barrister staring at him. He chuckled and slid back in the chair. “So there is debt, two properties and a gaggle of penniless, hysterical women—is that what you’re telling me, old boy?”

Stowe hesitated, then sat back in his chair, removing his wire-frame glasses. “I might have presented the tidings more delicately, my lord, but that is an accurate assessment indeed.”

“Why do you stand here, monsieur?”

Armand turned absently from the window, where rain trickled down the glass in rivulets, to look at the native girl standing quietly behind him. He’d found Tarasai quite by accident in the village. She was lovely, bright and, most importantly, she pleased him, not only in his bed, but in conversation. She had a gentle way about her and seemed to know instinctively when to speak and when to be silent.

“They are in London by now if they have not run into trouble on the voyage across the Atlantic.”

“The weather has been good, monsieur,” she said in a soft, lilting voice. “And the ship that carried them across the sea was a good one. Your chères filles are well, I feel it in my bones.”

She hugged herself and he could not help but smile. Then he coughed a dry, racking cough and she was at his side at once, one hand on his back, the other on his chest.

When the fit subsided, he stood again and reached into his pocket to take his handkerchief and wipe his mouth. “Ah, Tarasai, I am so tired, so very tired.”

“You should not worry so, monsieur. It is not good for your health.”

Slipping the handkerchief back into his pocket, he looked at her. “I am afraid it was wrong of me to send them away. Selfish of me. They were happy here. It should have been enough, n’est-ce pas?”

She slipped her small hand into his. “It was time for your beau papillon to be set free, monsieur. She was too big for this island, too full of la vie. Her future waits for her there across the ocean, a life of adventure and happiness.”

He sighed. “I hope you’re right, Tarasai. I will never forgive myself if she comes to harm through my ambitions for her.”

“I know that I am right,” she said softly. “It is in the stars.”

“Your coat and top, sir?” The butler met Jessup Stowe in the front hall of the prominent men’s club.

“Yes, thank you, Calvin.” Jessup gave himself a shake as he handed the servant his umbrella, then his top hat and drenched overcoat. “Still coming down pretty hard out there,” he remarked as he smoothed his thinning gray hair with the palm of his hand.

“Yes, sir. Your table is ready, Mr. Stowe, and Mr. Barker already awaits your company.”

“Thank you, Calvin.” Jessup pulled his slightly rumpled waistcoat down over his stomach, thinking that either the striped fabric was shrinking or he was gaining weight. “And thank you for taking those wet things.”

The butler nodded, backing up. “I can show you to your table, sir, if you’d just like to—”

“I’ve been eating at that table six nights a week for the past seven years since Mrs. Stowe died, Calvin. Surely I can find it.” Jessup started to turn away and then turned back, snapping his fingers. “Calvin, one more thing.”

“Sir?”

“It’s possible, though not probable, that I might have a guest coming. A Lord Wessex.”

The butler looked at him oddly.

“The new Lord Wessex, the earl’s heir,” Jessup explained with a wry smile.

“I see, sir.”

“He’s an American and doesn’t know his way around London, so I think he might be a bit out of sorts tonight.”

“I’ll show him to your table at once, Mr. Stowe, should he appear.”

Looking both ways to be sure no one was watching, Jessup slipped a coin from the small pocket of his waistcoat and handed it to the butler. “I know Mr. Porter prefers we not tip personally,” Jessup said quietly, “so just between you and me. You’re always so kind to me, Calvin. Kinder than any of my sons has ever been.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Calvin took one last step back, then turned, pleased and trying not to show it, and hurried down the hall.

His waistcoat reasonably straight, Jessup walked into the parlor of the prominent though slightly threadbare men’s club frequented by barristers like himself. He nodded to several gentlemen at the bar and proceeded to the dining room beyond. His old friend, Clyde Barker, also a widower, was already at the table, already on his first glass of scotch.

“Jessup.” The ruddy-faced man rose, his legs appearing a bit unsteady.

“Clyde, good to see you.” He clasped his friend’s hand and then moved closer to wrap his arm around Clyde’s shoulder. “I look forward all week to Fridays, just to see your ugly face.”

“And I the same.” Clyde grinned, taking his seat at the table covered with white linen and set with crystal.

The waiter caught Jessup’s eye as he sat down and headed for the bar when Jessup nodded.

“So how was your day, old friend? Not too tedious, I hope.”

“Not at all.” Jessup settled in the comfortable, high-backed brocade chair and stretched his legs out beneath the table. “I had the pleasure of meeting with the new Earl of Wessex.”

“Really?” Clyde set down his glass and leaned closer, always one for a bit of gossip. “They say he’s an American, a cousin of the last earl. Mrs. Barker’s brother Barton knows a business associate who’s dealt with him. In shipping, I think.” He chuckled, which wrinkled his aged face. “Astute businessman but a real bastard, he says.” His eyes crinkled. “And rumor has it that he’s quite a man with the ladies….”

Jessup glanced up as the waiter set down a glass of bourbon. One a night was all Jessup allowed himself, as he had promised his beloved Emma on her deathbed. In the grave or not, he would remain true to his promises—not just because he’d loved her, but because he feared if he didn’t, the old bird would punish him when he met her at the pearly gates.

“I don’t know. He seemed a pleasant enough chap.” Jessup shrugged.

Clyde stared shrewdly, still leaning on the table. “Really? That’s not what the tone of your voice says.”

Jessup took up his glass. “Well, I’ll confess he is an interesting character. Avery bold young man, very sure of himself.”

“Like all the Thixtons.” Clyde sat back with satisfaction and reached for his glass. “Well, except for Edward’s father, Charles. Did you know him? Now, there was a bastard.” He lifted his glass thoughtfully. “You know what they say about bad traits skipping a generation.”

“The American is a distant cousin, not in the direct family line.”

“Still, you know what they say.” Clyde smiled and lifted his glass higher in a toast. “To good friends.”

“Good friends,” Jessup echoed.

Clyde took a long sip before setting his glass down. “I already ordered the trout and parsnips. Should be along anytime.”

“Excellent.”

“And what did the American have to say when he discovered that what he inherited was mostly debt?”

Jessup frowned. He had suspected everyone in London society knew the state of Lord Wessex’s affairs when he passed away. They always knew. “You know very well I cannot reveal the details of the conversation I had with a client.”

“That bad, was it? They say he has a temper.”

Jessup folded his hands on his lap. “I saw no temper demonstrated in my office. Lord Wessex was a complete gentleman.” Not exactly a lie, Emma.

“Does that mean he hasn’t met the old biddy Countess of Wessex and her ugly ducklings yet? I hear they’re staying in town.”

“Oh dear,” Jessup mumbled, taking the linen napkin from his lap to wipe his mouth. “I sent him to the town house to stay, thinking the countess was still in the country.”

Clyde laughed and reached for his nearly empty glass. “Oh, to be a fly on that wall. Do you think she’s already proposed marriage between the American and her eldest shrew, or do you think she’ll lay her cap for him herself?” He winked. “She might just have it in her, you know. Some say it was the threat of scandal that made Edward marry her in the first place. Gossip she actually set in motion to ensnare him.”

“Oh dear,” Jessup muttered again. “Dear me, I’ve made a muck of this, haven’t I.”

“Charles.” Clyde waved to the waiter. “Another round for us both. I believe Mr. Stowe may be feeling a little faint,” he finished, highly amused.

Jessup laid his hand over the top of his glass. “Dear, dear me.”

“Stowe.”

Jessup saw the American striding toward him, looking none too pleased.

Jessup grabbed his napkin and pushed away from the table to stand up. “My lord.”

The Earl of Wessex was dressed handsomely in a black overcoat and white silk neckerchief over a black evening coat and striped white waistcoat. He carried his top hat in his hand, and was brushing back a wisp of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead.

“How…how kind of you to join me,” Jessup said. “Please, let me introduce you to—”

“They’re there, did you know that?” Blake demanded. “The countess and her daughters three, but it seemed like three hundred when they all assaulted me at once with their chatter and batting of eyelashes. I thought I’d suffocate from the scent of their rose toilet water.”

“Would…would you care to join me and my friend Mr. Barker for dinner? We’ve not yet been served.”

“What I want is to know is why you sent me to that town house knowing those women were there?” Blake demanded.

“I was not aware of that, my lord. I apologize for not checking again. Last week when I received the message that you’d be arriving, I had the town house in Mayfair opened up and aired and servants hired in anticipation of your arrival. The countess must have come to London since.”

Blake tightened his grip on his thoroughly wet hat and looked away, giving himself a moment to let his anger subside. They were in a dining room of one of the many gentlemen’s clubs in the city. This one appeared old and well-established, and though it was not as well-furnished as some he had visited in Boston and abroad, it did have a certain air about it. The scent of tobacco and hickory wood seemed to permeate the air of the dark-paneled rooms.

“I truly apologize for the inconvenience,” Mr. Stowe repeated, pulling himself up to his full height, which was still nearly a head shorter than Lord Wessex’s.

Blake scowled, but he was not as angry as he had been when he stormed out of the town house into the rain and had been unable to hail a carriage for a full block. “I suppose it could not be helped.”

“No, my lord, it could not be,” Stowe answered firmly. “If you wish, I shall bring about proceedings first thing tomorrow morning to have the countess removed from your property.”

Blake caught sight of the butler hovering in the doorway. “Get me a scotch,” he grunted.

“Certainly, my lord.” The man rushed forward. “Could I take your wet things now, my lord, and then bring you a meal, as well?”

Blake handed him his hat and the scarf and coat. “Thank you, but nothing to eat. Just the scotch. I’ve another engagement, but I think I’d best fortify myself before I go.”

“Yes, my lord.” Calvin bowed. “Just let me get you a chair, my lord.”

“I can get my own,” Blake grumbled, grabbing an upholstered chair from the nearest empty table. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Barker.” He placed the chair at the linen-set table and thrust out his hand to shake Barker’s. “I suppose you’re a barrister, too. You’ve got the same barreled abdomen as Stowe and a dozen like you. Comes from sitting behind that desk all day.”

“Yes, my lord.” Mr. Barker pumped Blake’s hand enthusiastically, and all three men took their seats.

“Damn it, tell me what the hell I’m to do now, Stowe. And don’t tell me it’s my prerogative to throw these women out on the street.” Blake gave his head a shake. “I knew I should never have made this journey. I knew it would be nothing but trouble.” He accepted the glass the bartender brought him and impolitely lifted it to his lips, not waiting for the other two men before he drank. “Tell me what you advise concerning the countess and her frog spawn, else they’ll be sleeping in your bed tonight, sir.”

After two scotches, Blake was able to catch a hackney—even in the rain—thanks to the butler at the men’s club. He arrived at the address of one of his business associates more than two hours beyond the engraved invitation’s specified time, but was nonetheless greeted by a flurry of activity and fuss. He had gained overnight status as a celebrity of sorts and everyone addressed him as Lord Wessex. The party was in celebration of his associate Mr. Todd Warrington’s daughter’s eighteenth birthday, but Blake barely gave her a moment’s notice beyond propriety’s perfunctory waltz. He preferred his women a little older, and certainly more experienced.

A brandy in his hand, Blake wandered out onto the granite balcony that overlooked a lush garden. The rain had stopped and a crescent moon had risen high in the sky. As he gazed upward he realized that the night sky was different here in Europe, different in a way that made him yearn for Boston.

“Good evening.”

Blake turned at the soft voice to see a woman close to his own age dressed in a pale pink gown, her light blond hair upswept in an elaborate coiffure, a heavy string of pearls hanging above a well-rounded bosom. He immediately understood the tone of her voice due to his many late-night balcony experiences, with women who stood alone in the darkness while a lively party ensued inside. They were sad women, vulnerable.

“Good evening,” he replied with a smile.

Hesitantly, she moved toward him, offering her hand. “Elizabeth Barclay…Mrs. Williams,” she corrected herself, as if on second thought.

“Blake Thixton.” He took her hand, kissing it…lingering. She smelled of lilacs and utter femininity.

“I know who you are, Lord Wessex.”

When he lifted his head, he saw that she was smiling at him. Not exactly a coy smile, but an honest one, a sad one. He had read her tone correctly.

“And I believe I know you, Mrs. Williams. New York, right? Your husband is Jefferson Williams, in iron?” He recalled meeting Williams once in New York City, an ugly man twice his wife’s age with an even uglier disposition.

“That’s correct.” She withdrew her bare hand; she wasn’t wearing gloves like all the other women.

“Your husband is here in London on business?”

She nodded, coming to stand beside him to gaze down into the garden below. She shivered, and Blake reached out to draw her matching silk wrap around her bare shoulders. When she turned, her mouth rested half open, as if longing to be kissed by someone younger than sixty.

Blake set his brandy on the balcony’s rail and drew her against him with the arm he had raised to cover her shoulders. She gasped and stiffened in surprise as he touched his lips to hers, but when his tongue entered her mouth, she surrendered.

Blake knew Elizabeth Williams had never made love to a stranger on a balcony, but he had done so many times. Holding her in his arms, covering her mouth, her neck, her breasts with hot kisses, he led her to the darkest corner of the balcony, beyond the musicians’ waltz and the bright gas lamps that flanked the double doors that led inside to the ballroom.

Elizabeth struggled for breath, clearly shocked by her reaction to him. He thrust his hand into the bodice of her pink gown and felt her nipples harden instantly at his touch. She moaned. She was starved for a man’s touch. He lowered his head, taking one nipple between his lips and tugged gently with his teeth.

She groaned aloud, leaning against the damp stone wall, both arms above her head in utter surrender to her need. Lifting her skirts without further preliminaries, he pulled aside her silk encumbrances, penetrated her roughly and deeply, and satisfied them both.

Only afterward, as he fastened his wool trousers and smoothed her silk skirts and bodice, did he see a single tear slip down her pale face.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured as he kissed her cheek.

“I…I’ve never done this before,” she said breathlessly.

“You’re a beautiful woman, a woman whose needs must be met—”

“Mrs. Williams, are you here?” called an older gentleman.

She flinched at the sound of the door opening onto the balcony.

Blake kissed her, whispering against her lips. “Come see me in Boston.”

By the time Mr. Jefferson Williams stepped onto the balcony to retrieve his wife, Blake was at the rail again, sipping his brandy, looking into the garden. If Williams saw him, he paid him no mind.

“Are you ready to go, Mrs. Williams? I have an early morning appointment.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Williams.”

The hem of her gown almost brushed Blake’s polished boot as she glided past him. Either Mr. Williams didn’t see him or he didn’t care what his wife did on balconies with strangers.

Blake smiled. Yet another reason to be in no hurry to wed…