Читать книгу Sapphire - Rosemary Rogers, Rosemary Rogers - Страница 11

“Ah, there you are, ma chère.” Lucia swept into the bedchamber Sapphire and Angelique were sharing on the third floor of Lord and Lady Carlisle’s town house near Charing Cross, dressed for the afternoon in a pale green and lavender barege gown, gloves and a berib-boned straw bonnet. “Are you certain you won’t join Lady Carlisle and me for tea at Lady Morrow’s?”

“No, thank you, Auntie.” Sapphire glanced up from her book of Lord Byron’s poetry, trying to appear fatigued. “I’m afraid I’m still tired. My horseback ride this morning with Lord Carlisle was long and I think I’d rather just stay here and cozy up with my book.”

“Very well, puss.” Lucia sighed as she adjusted her new bonnet with its upturned brim that made her look years younger. “I can stay with you if you like, though. I don’t really want to go visit with Lady Morrow. Nearly a month on the ship with her was enough to last me a lifetime, but I was just going so we could stop at the Royal Exchange on the way home.”

Sapphire, wearing a ruffled, ribboned blue dressing gown, was seated in a chair under the window, her legs tucked beneath her. “Don’t be silly, Auntie. I wouldn’t want you to stay on my behalf, especially when you have the chance to shop.” She smiled mischievously.

“Well, I suppose Angelique will be here with you should you need anything.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Sapphire intoned, pretending to read again.

“Where is Angelique, anyway?”

“I believe she might be taking a walk in the gardens.” Sapphire licked her fingertip and turned the page of the book without looking up. “Or did she say she was going to the stables to see those new kittens again? I can’t recall.”

“Well, all right.” Lucia rested her hand on the glass doorknob. “You’re certain you’ll be fine?”

“Of course—now go and don’t worry about me. A little reading, perhaps a nap, and I’ll be fine by dinner.” Sapphire smiled sweetly.

“All right, dear.” Lucia opened the door to go, then turned back, her hand still on the doorknob. “I do hope this has nothing to do with my not allowing you to go immediately to Lord Wessex’s residence. I understand your impatience with wanting to meet your father, but we’ve not even been here a full day and there are channels to follow, society rules to oblige. This is far too important to make a muck of it.”

“I understand. You’re right, absolutely right.” Sapphire turned another page and reached for her teacup on the table beside her. “Have fun, and do buy yourself a hat. The one you’re wearing today is delightful.”

The door closed and Sapphire glanced up over the top of her book, listening as her guardian’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, then down the stairs. She took a deep breath, still listening, as she rose and set the book down, using a piece of wide hair ribbon to mark her place.

Walking to the bed, she knelt, pulled her mother’s old leather casket out and gently lifted the lid. Smiling tenderly, she drew her fingers over the brittle love letters given to her mother by her father when they were courting—letters she had reread a hundred times during the journey to London. Also inside was her mother’s locket, worn in her days in New Orleans, and a small curl of Sapphire’s auburn hair. Deeper in the small, leather-bound trunk she found pressed flowers, a tiny silver hairbrush that had been Sapphire’s as a baby and one of Armand’s old handkerchiefs. Digging beneath the lining at the bottom of the casket, her fingers found the velvet bag she sought. Sitting back on her knees, she opened the drawstrings of the bag and lifted the cold, smooth gem from the soft folds of the fabric.

Sapphire’s breath caught in her throat as she lifted the jewel toward the window and the sunlight struck it, lighting it with a blue brilliance that was almost blinding. After all these years, she was going to meet her father….

“But I think our meeting will not be what you imagined, Mama,” she said, pressing a kiss to the glittering jewel. “I’ve a thing or two to say to this man, I’ll warrant you.” She eased the sapphire into the black velvet bag, tightened the string and returned it beneath the casket’s worn burgundy velvet lining, so that even if a nosy servant did open the box, she would never suspect the treasure hidden inside. To the unknowing eye, the old, battered leather casket looked simply like a box of worthless female keepsakes.

Sapphire pushed the trunk back under the bed and got to her feet, her fingers untying the ribbons of her dressing gown. Confident Lucia was in Lady Carlisle’s carriage by now, she stripped off the gown to reveal the dress she’d bought as soon as they’d arrived in London, the dress she would wear when she confronted her father.

Sapphire placed the dressing gown on the bed and turned toward the floor-length oval mirror. The dress was actually of two pieces, a skirt and a front-buttoning jacket with a short basque in a brilliant jewel-blue challis. The sleeves were narrow, as was the latest fashion, and dainty new square-toed black leather boots peeked from beneath her petticoats.

She smiled at her reflection, knowing that the moment her father saw her eyes—one blue, one green like his—he would know who she was.

But she realized she had no time to waste if she was going to escape the house undetected, meet Lord Wessex, and then be back before Lucia and Lady Carlisle returned. She went in search of the bonnet she wanted to wear. It was her plan not to tell Lucia what she had done, and then, when they were formally introduced according to the plans Lady Carlisle and Lucia were making, there would be no scene. Once she had given him a piece of her mind privately—out of respect for her mother and Armand—she would be cordial, if not remote, publicly.

The door opened as Sapphire lowered her bonnet over her auburn curls, and she whipped around to see Angelique walk in, her dark hair mussed and the bodice of her peach-colored day gown slightly rumpled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Angelique demanded.

Sapphire turned to the mirror, adjusting the hat before drawing the ribbons under her neck. “Me? What about you? What do you think you’ve been doing? Though why I bother to ask, I don’t know.”

Angelique sighed and threw herself on the bed. “His name is Robert and he’s the stable master’s eldest son. He thinks I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”

Sapphire glanced doubtfully at her companion, then back at the mirror, attempting to achieve just the right tilt of her bonnet. “We spoke of this before we left Martinique, Angel,” she chastised. “You cannot kiss every young man you run into.”

“And why not? I won’t be in nearly as much trouble for kissing Robert if I get caught as you will be for sneaking off to Lord Wessex’s.”

“I’m not sneaking.” Sapphire spun around. “I’m walking right out the front hall, out the front door and hiring a hackney to take me to Mayfair.”

“Does Aunt Lucia know you’re going?”

Sapphire frowned as she opened the drawer of a chifforobe to retrieve a pair of scented travel gloves.

“Are you going to tell her where you’ve been when you return?”

Sapphire didn’t answer.

“Then you’re sneaking.”

“He’s my father, Angel. I will not have our first encounter in front of hundreds of people at some formal ball or another.”

“Let me go with you, then.”

“You’re not going with me.” Sapphire traversed the bedchamber to the door, tucking a stray pincurl beneath her bonnet. “You’re going to stay here and cover for me in case my father and I fall into a lengthy conversation and lose track of the time.” She glanced back at Angel. “Although I think that is highly unlikely, considering what I have to say to him.”

“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. Aunt Lucia is going to be furious.” Angelique followed her into the hallway. “Are you nervous?”

Sapphire shook her head, biting down on the soft flesh of her inner lip. It was a lie, of course, even Angel knew it, but saying she wasn’t nervous somehow made her feel stronger, bolder. “Cover for me if you must, but don’t get yourself in trouble. I wouldn’t ask that you lie for me.” Sapphire gave her friend a quick peck on the cheek and, seeing the third-story hall was empty, hurried for the staircase, raising a gloved hand in farewell. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

London was noisy, smelly, dirty and deafening. There were so many sights to see—churches, elegant town houses, narrow shops, public buildings—that she couldn’t decide where to look next. Throngs crowded the streets: butchers’ boys carrying huge sections of beef, mutton and pork; ladies’ maids hurrying by on errands; beggars; plump merchants’ wives; clergymen; farmers in wooden clogs and straw hats; bewigged judges and uniformed soldiers, all threading their way past riders on horseback, hackneys, carriages, ale wagons and wicker carts, not to mention the stray dogs, pigs and occasional chicken. The carriage ride from Charing Cross to the fashionable West End of London was not nearly as long as Sapphire would have liked, and before she knew it her coachman reined in his horse in front of the marble steps of an elegant town house—one she had discreetly discovered was her father’s home when he was in the city.

“Would you like me to wait, miss?” the driver called from the high seat of his hackney.

Sapphire put on a false smile, lifted her chin a notch and tried to imagine how an earl’s daughter would behave around common working men. “No, thank you, sir. Good day.” She passed him what she hoped was the correct fee for his service.

He grinned, tugged at his forelock and nodded. “Thank’ee, miss.” Then he cracked his whip over the horse’s back and the hired carriage rolled away, leaving her no choice but to lift the ornate lion’s-head knocker on the paneled walnut door that was wide enough for two broad-shouldered men to pass through side by side.

The door was opened almost at once, startling her.

“May I help you?” a slender, middle-aged footman in a spotless black coat inquired, looking down at her through the lenses of his eyeglasses.

“Yes, thank you, sir.” Sapphire felt as if she couldn’t breathe as she stepped into the front hall without waiting to be asked. “I’m here to see Lord Wessex.” She was amazed how true and clear her voice sounded; it was without a hint of waver.

“And may I ask who is calling?”

Sapphire could tell by his tone of voice that he did not approve of her arrival without a proper invitation. In the day they had been in London, she had learned that English society life was quite different from the laissez-faire existence in Martinique among the wealthy French and English landowners. Here, there were rules concerning proper etiquette for visiting involving calling cards, morning invitations and evening invitations and even the length of sleeve appropriate. It was her lack of a proper calling card, presently at the printers, that probably made the footman suspicious of her.

“His daughter.” She smiled sweetly.

The footman could not hide his surprise. “Miss?”

“You ask who calls on Lord Wessex. I am his daughter.” She plucked off a glove, amazed at how easily she could fall into the role of Lady Sapphire Thixton. “Please tell him that I’m here. I haven’t but a moment.”

The butler gave a half bow, still looking as if he did not believe her. “Would you care to sit down while I see if his lordship is available?” He indicated a row of white and gold brocade chairs along one wall of the large, ornate receiving hall.

“No, thank you.” She hoped he would interpret her smile to mean he should hurry along.

“One moment, miss.”

He bowed again and disappeared through an arched doorway. The town house did not appear especially large from the outside, but she could now see that it was immense. Her father was not only titled, but obviously quite a wealthy man.

Sapphire exhaled slowly, pressing her hand to the knot in her abdomen, staring at the huge formal portraits of balding men that lined the walls.

Only a moment more, she told herself, and we’ll meet face-to-face.

Blake heard the first knock at the door to the study but ignored it. The knock came again and he peered up irritably from behind the desk that had belonged to the late Lord Wessex. “Yes, what is it that is so urgent?” he barked. “Did I not say less than half an hour ago that I did not wish to be disturbed unless the house was aflame? I don’t care what color livery the footmen wear today and I don’t care if we have the eel pie or the tripe soup because I will not be dining in this house tonight! Not if it were the last table of food on God’s earth,” he finished.

The paneled study door opened and the butler, Preston, stood at attention, his eyes downcast, until Blake completed his string of insults. “My lord.”

“Yes?” Blake groaned.

“There is someone to see you here, my lord.”

“Who?” He half rose from the chair, pressing the heels of his hands into the polished wood of the desk.

“A young lady, my lord, who says…”

“She says what, Preston? Come, now, I grow old before your eyes.”

“She says she is your daughter, my lord.”

“My daughter?” Blake exploded. “I haven’t got a damn daughter. What in God’s name—” He broke off before completing the sentence when he realized what was going on.

Word apparently spread fast in London when it came to inheritances, and people had been pouring out of the woodwork all week, claiming the previous earl owed them money. Perhaps a few were owed, considering the state of Edward Thixton IV’s accounts, but mostly these scavengers were on his doorstep hoping to take advantage of a grieving widow or an aged, addlepated heir. “Would you like me to turn her away, sir?”

Blake thought for a moment as he tightened the tie of the silk dressing gown he wore over a pair of silk trousers. The earl’s daughter? At least this claim was more inventive than an unpaid receipt for a wig or an evening coat. “No, no, Preston, I’ll take care of this one myself.” He wasn’t properly clothed to receive a caller, but he didn’t care.

“Right this way, miss,” the footman said as he led Sapphire down a hall and into a receiving parlor.

She couldn’t help but take in the room, the walls painted a pale green, the heavy drapes in stripes of a complementary hue. The furniture was old but well kept and far more attractive and elegant than some of the newer styles she had seen in the Carlisles’ home. She sighed, then whispered to herself, “I’m here, Mama, at last.”

“His lordship will be in directly,” the footman said, backing through the doorway and closing the double pocketed mahogany doors behind him.

Sapphire turned toward one wall to study a large seascape hung in a gilt frame. She could just make out the name E. Thixton scrawled in the bottom right corner of the painting. It was really quite good. Had her father painted it? Taking a step closer, she admired the bold strokes of blue and green that seemed to bring the sea pounding against the rocky shore to life.

The doors behind Sapphire slid open and she turned.

For a moment, Blake found himself speechless. Preston had said it was a girl come to call, claiming to be the daughter of the Earl of Wessex, but he had fully expected a malnourished chit with bad teeth, dressed in a cheap gown and ugly hat.

But standing before him was a full woman with glossy dark red hair, an expensive, fashionable gown and eyes he would fantasize about for many nights to come. She had the creamiest, most luscious skin, with a sprinkling of freckles across her straight nose and a charming chin with the slightest cleft. But it was her mouth, even more than her shocking eyes or lustrous hair, that mesmerized him most. Hers was the mouth of a courtesan—perfectly shaped with a thin upper lip and a full, sensuous lower lip, a mouth his own suddenly ached to taste.

Only when she blinked was Blake jolted back to reality.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Pardon me?” she replied angrily, her mind racing in confusion. He was young, certainly too young to be her father, who would be close to fifty. Who was this rude man and what was he doing in her father’s house?

“You heard me,” he said as he strode in. He was a shockingly handsome man, perhaps ten or twelve years older than she was, with a shock of ebony hair and the most intense brown eyes she had ever seen.

“I suppose I should ask you the same thing.” She took a step toward him, lifting her chin as she crossed her arms over her fitted jacket.

“I don’t know who you are or what you want but I will not tolerate any false claims from fortune hunters or thieves. Now, whatever you might believe is owed to you will be paid, if it is indeed owed to you,” he said. “I will provide you with the name and location of my barrister and all bills will be submitted to him and only him. I’ll not pay a pence until your claim is investigated.”

Sapphire stepped back. The man’s words didn’t make sense. Who was he calling a fortune hunter and what bills was he talking about?

“What have you to say for yourself, young lady?”

The stranger strode across the room. He was so close, she could smell his shaving lotion and the masculine scent of his skin.

“Who are you?” she asked. “I’m looking for Lord Wessex, the Earl of Wessex who owns this house.”

“I am Lord Wessex, and I am the owner of the property, young lady. Now I suggest you remove yourself from said property before I call the constable.”

Sapphire made a sound of protest but it caught in her throat. “No, you can’t be the Earl of Wessex! My father is the Earl of Wessex, Edward Thixton.”

He scowled. “The late Edward Thixton, Earl of Wessex, had no issue.”

She stared at Blake. “Where is he?” she heard herself whisper.

“The graveyard, I suppose. Now go,” he said coldly as he stepped aside. “Make haste and I won’t call the constable, but if you attempt to appropriate money from me or this estate again, it will be off to Newgate Prison with you.”

Sapphire looked up once more at Blake and her eyes became cloudy with tears. Confused, hurt beyond reason, she stumbled forward and ran for the door. She rushed down the hallway and out the broad front door, ignoring the footman as he tried to call a carriage for her.

She rounded the corner, halting to grasp the pole of a gas lamp on the stone-paved walk. “He’s dead,” she murmured as she squeezed her eyes shut in disbelief. “Oh, Mama, he’s dead.”