Читать книгу Society's Beauties: Mistress at Midnight / Scars of Betrayal - Sophia James - Страница 16

Aurelia took a letter to the hospital the next morning, the missive concealed in her reticule under other papers and a wide silk scarf. ‘The last time,’ she said to herself. This would be the last time she took such chances.

As she walked along the hospital corridor she was aware of a man observing her closely. When she smiled at him he fidgeted with something in his pocket and stood, disappearing around the corner at speed.

The sight of Freddy Delsarte as she came outside made her stiffen and she wondered what discovery might engender. Treason carried the death penalty and she knew that a defence of blackmail would not save her. She needed to get Sylvienne away from Paris and pay off Delsarte for his silence. Now Leonora’s reputation was at stake, as well, and with the chance of happiness with Rodney Northrup almost coming to fruition…She stopped. Hawkhurst was circling in the Limestone Hole and in the places that society gathered; his connections with the secret service threaded into the verbal warnings he gave her, but for now it was Delsarte who wanted a word.

‘You are the talk of the town, Mrs St Harlow, for Hawkhurst’s ball has elevated you to the status of acceptable.’

‘I have paid my dues, sir, as far as any legal requirements are concerned. Now I just wish to be left in peace.’

‘Sylvienne might say the same.’

‘Sylvienne?’ Her voice was harsh even to her own ears. ‘If you hurt even one hair on her head, Delsarte, I shall see to it that the truth about your questionable morality and allegiance is made known and you will be crucified for it.’

‘A case of the pot calling the kettle black, Mrs St Harlow.’

She shook her head. ‘Mama was a fool to have allowed you into her bed and I am even more of one to have been persuaded to deliver your letters. Lord Stephen Hawkhurst has been asking after your movements and it would be very easy to tell him all that I know.’

‘Do that and you will be up there in the hanging noose alongside me, my dear. The British Government would have little sympathy for the daughter of a French whore.’

His anger made Aurelia take a step backwards. She was caught in the game as certainly as Delsarte was, her mother’s welfare taking precedence over any allegiance to King or to country. Unsavoury, she knew, but Sylvienne was walking a knife edge and Aurelia could not let her fall.

The same man she had seen at the hospital suddenly crossed the street in front of them and Delsarte hurried away. Another player in the game of espionage and secrets? A further threat to the safety of her mother?

A note came in the late afternoon to Park Street as she was trying to fit in a few hours’ work. The man who brought it had been instructed to wait for an answer and when she read the contents she was very glad Henry Kerslake was out and about.

Lord Hawkhurst wanted to see her and had asked her to come in the provided carriage to his town house within the hour. Worrying about the implications of such a summons, Aurelia wiped the sweat from her palms on the skirt of her gown and looked up at the waiting servant.

Should she take a risk and go? She had heard rumours that Stephen Hawkhurst worked for the British Service though nothing had ever been confirmed. Perhaps he had come snooping because of the money she sent to France. Or perhaps he had something to tell her about the entailment of Braeburn House? The cold fear of discovery was choking and she knew it would be better to face him in private and alone than in some crowded soirée.

‘I will need ten minutes before I could accompany you.’ Aurelia was glad her voice sounded steady.

‘Very well, ma’am.’

When he left she stood, the ridge of fur on Caesar’s back raised in warning, his growls subsiding at his departure. ‘I wish you could come…’ she whispered and threw him a bone from a box beneath her desk. As the hound set down to the task of gnawing on it Aurelia crossed to the mirror in the small back room.

In the silvered reflection she looked both tired and shocked, her eyes uncannily like those of her mother’s. Pinching her cheeks to try to produce some colour, she reached in habit for the pendant at her throat and stopped. No, it had gone, too, in the pretence and the deceit. There was nothing left to protect her family with but her wiles and her willpower.

Her coat hung on a hook by the door and as she pulled each button through she counted. Eight buttons. One for every year since she had met Charles St Harlow at the Redmonds’ ball in Clarence Street. Eight years since she had been truly happy. Eight years since she had slept all through a night and woken in the morning with dreams that had made her smile.

The peal of the bells from the nearby church were loud as she came into the wind and with her head held high she allowed Hawkhurst’s man to help her into the conveyance.

He should not see Aurelia St Harlow alone and so late in the day, but he wanted to look into her eyes as he asked her his questions, and know the truth. She had been seen today in the company of both the French doctor and Freddy Delsarte. He knew that if Shavvon were cognisant of such associations she would have already been brought in for questioning, such was the power of the Government’s uneasiness over foreign collaborators.

His own desires and needs were another factor entirely, though he had never been a man to put himself first. But he was disconcerted by the blood in him that raced with possibility when everything about such a reaction was wrong.

He heard the carriage and stood, cursing a rising need.

‘Mrs St Harlow, my lord,’ Wilson introduced her and left, shutting the door behind himself firmly. Hawkhurst had already given orders that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances and their relationship was such that he knew his instructions would be obeyed to the letter.

The heat from a well-stoked fire fell across the room and he watched as she unbuttoned her coat, her fingers shaking with the effort. After the heavy outer shell was discarded she carefully laid it upon the sofa beside her. In the silken lining he caught the same rows of stitched repair that seemed evident in all of her apparel.

‘Thank you for coming.’

Her countenance was pale and drawn. When he indicated a chair to one side of the room she moved towards it, but did not sit. Her hands were gloveless and she wore no hat. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘I seldom partake of any alcohol, my lord,’ she returned, the formal edge on her words unnerving and her voice low.

‘Wise,’ he echoed as he emptied his own glass for the third time in as many minutes. ‘You will excuse me for displaying no such abstinence.’

The slight nod of her head made him turn, her nose tip-tilted against the fire’s flame and her dimples deep even when she did not smile. No wonder her cousin had offered her marriage in so short a time. Alfred had made it known that there had been many others vying for Aurelia Beauchamp’s hand in her first Season and society had been as shocked as her father when she had chosen the self-indulgent Charles.

His cousin had whisked her from London the day of the wedding and she had not returned until her court appearance three years later, a devoted wife wrapped in widow’s weeds and a hefty dose of sorrow.

For just a moment Stephen hardly knew where to begin. ‘I could order tea if you would rather?’ The quick shake of her head stopped him, so instead he tried another tack. ‘How long have you worked in the Park Street warehouse?’

The spark in her eyes told him she had been expecting just such a question. ‘Nearly four years. The mills at Macclesfield had lain vacant for a long time and I made use of them again. The warehouse here is the London base for the business.’

‘And some of your silks come in from France?’

‘Yes. With the lifting of import duties it is often cheaper to bring the hand-loomed silks in as an adjunct to what we can weave.’

‘So you have contact with the traders in Paris?’

She hesitated before nodding. ‘I do. Is there some problem with that, my lord?’

‘No problem at all. Curiosity is just one of my many faults.’

‘Somehow I doubt that. Palmerston has the thought that all citizens with some link to France must be traitors.’

‘You make it a point to understand politics?’

‘I try to. The tariffs for the silk trade here are hefty, yet France enjoys little government intervention. Without a good knowledge of the changing pattern of the new bills and laws, my margins would suffer.’

Despite himself he laughed. ‘My cousin could barely string a thought together about anything other than himself or fashion. How did he ever end up with a woman like you?’

A flash of panic crossed her face. ‘I realise it is a difficult thing to understand, but I am trying to build a life again, my lord, trying to fashion a better existence for my family.’

‘Why did you meet with Delsarte today, Aurelia?’

Anger whipped up fire in her eyes. ‘You have had me followed?’

‘England’s safety comes with good intelligence.’

‘Your man has poor skills, then. I spotted him both at the hospital and in the street.’

‘Perhaps he wished to be seen.’

‘Because you would warn me…?’ Her question wavered into silence. The material in her ugly gown caught the lamplight and one of the ties at her throat was loosened so that the bodice hung away from her skin.

Dipping into his pocket, he brought forth the pendant he had located in a pawnshop two days ago. The look of surprise on her face had him reaching for her gloveless hand. Her skin felt hot and smooth as he placed the bauble within her palm and closed her fingers around it.

‘It looked like a family heirloom. I thought perhaps you had lost it?’

A shake of her head brought him the truth. ‘I sold it to pay the Davies stables for the rent of their carriage on a Monday. It was my grandmother’s.’

Her teeth worried her bottom lip and for just a moment Hawk thought she might begin to cry. But Aurelia St Harlow was thankfully made of sterner stuff.

‘You think me a traitor and yet you paid for the restoration of my pendant?’

‘I am old enough to realise the world does not deal in only black and white and that grey is a colour subject to much interpretation. I would like to hear how it is you know Delsarte?’

‘He was a friend of my husband’s. He came religiously to the parties at Medlands. He is also an opium addict.’

Shocking. He could see it in her face, the crawl of truth and the caution of betrayal.

‘Were you at these parties?’

‘Once. The first night. Before I understood exactly…’

She did not go on, the silence about them pulsing with intent.

Finally she spoke again. ‘It is my opinion that you came to the warehouse in Park Street because you believe there is some illicit business being carried on from those premises. I do not know who sent you there, but it may be prudent on my behalf to suggest we make a deal, my lord. If you could find it in yourself to acknowledge that there is no nefarious activity in my small silk business, I could offer in payment the promise of a letter that would bring to light the truth of your cousin’s death.’

‘God, Aurelia.’

There was something in what she said that did not make any sense, though he couldn’t at this moment fathom quite what it was. Her pulse was hammering in her throat, but she did not give an inch, her gaze full upon him. ‘As Charles’s cousin I do think you have the right to know the circumstances of his demise and the grey you spoke of a moment ago can be evident even in murder.’ Her voice shook and he saw her swallow, her tongue wetting dry lips. Desperately trying to regain given ground, he suspected, and failing.

An ache he had never felt before wound into his chest and shock left him rigid. Was she admitting to both treason and murder? An unexpected tenderness welled within him, enveloping the will to move away.

How did she do this to him so very easily, make him want to protect her and keep her safe? From everyone, even given such damning revelations?

She had as many problems as he did and that was saying something. The very thought made him sad, the isolation of her at complete odds with the words that she uttered. There was no rationality in it, of course, no earthly reason that the attraction between them should shimmer and scorch above Queen and country and justice. But it did, and so brightly that desperation crawled up his arm in shock.

He wanted her. She could feel the need between them. He wanted her exactly as she wanted him, like an anchor, like a touchstone, like the only person in the whole world who might understand that in tragedy there was sometimes also a glimmer of hope.

For the first time in her life she wondered what might happen were she to put herself first and simply enjoy, but with so many people to protect and so little time to do it she needed to make him understand exactly what she was saying.

‘I need immunity from any prosecution, my lord, and you intimated at Hookham’s library that you were attracted to me. Perhaps in that we might both find a solution.’

He stepped back, anger on his brow. She noticed how he pulled his jacket from the hanger by the door and shrugged into it, the long tails reaching almost to his shins. He did not want her? He had not been expecting any such admission?

An error! She had made a huge error for the green-gold in his eyes was changed into dangerous amber, any civility still evident simmering under darkness.

‘Surely we are adult enough to realise that the world is often not exactly as it might seem, my lord, and that there are times when the expedience of opportunity might serve us both. I am not an inexperienced green girl, you understand, and you are a man, no doubt, who has enjoyed the company of women.’ It was all she could dredge up in the awkward silence, though when he motioned for her to stop she saw that she had lost him.

‘The act of loving between a woman and a man is badly done when it is linked so precisely to dishonour, Mrs St Harlow.’ His hand shook more than it usually did and he jammed it into his pocket away from notice.

‘These might be fine words, Lord Hawkhurst, when one has the choice of exploring different options.’ Fury crept into her reply.

‘And you think that you do not?’

‘I know it.’

‘So it is only your body that lies between survival or ruin?’

‘Indeed, my sisters might say thus were they to know of your tender.’

Unexpectedly he laughed, the sound echoing about the dark spaces of the room. ‘Your sisters? Your father? It is for them that you do this? Who is it that looks out for you, then, when you have need for some succour?’ Now all humour was gone completely.

The question had her turning away because in just those few words he had understood what she had tried so hard to hide.

No one.

She had always been alone. Fighting, trying, hobbling into each successive day with the weight of the world on her shoulders and no hope at all of being rid of any of it. Until his promise of help had thrown her with its bright and buoyant hope; a golden troth that had changed everything and now seemed gone.

She hated how expectation made a mockery of morality and when Stephen Hawkhurst held her to the spot with a quick grab of her hand she did her best to shrug him off, short nails digging into the flesh of his wrist. She did not try to be careful or gentle. All she wanted was the cold anger of force, dragging between them, punctuating the impotence and weakness that was her life so far, never in control.

And now another humiliation, more complete than ever before because even with such a simple touch she knew that she had never wanted anyone as much as she wanted Stephen Hawkhurst. Her right hand slapped hard against his arm as she tried to get away.