Читать книгу Miss Lottie's Christmas Protector - Sophia James - Страница 12

Early December 1842

Jasper King lay in bed at his town house on the west side of Arlington Street in Piccadilly overlooking Green Park and watched the smoke rings from his cheroot rise towards the high ceiling and its ornate centre rosette.

He’d moved into this house because he’d felt he needed a base and after years in Liverpool he’d wanted to come home to the city he’d lived in as a child and finally rest for a while. His father would have approved, he thought, smiling as he remembered the man who had brought his children up almost singlehandedly after the death of his wife. Arlene Susan King. His mother. He had not known her so his memories were only from stiff etchings, the sepia images giving little away as to the true nature of the woman. She had always felt like a stranger.

He shook off such melancholy, his thoughts returning to the day at hand. His elder sister Meghan had said she would meet him after two in the afternoon at a Christmas party she had helped organise so he still had a few hours to use up in the meantime. As a man who had been busy for so many years with the engineering firm his father had started, and all its demands, this was an unparalleled indolence, but for once he allowed the sheer silence of living to wash across him as he simply sat and did nothing.

Three years ago at this time he had hit rock bottom, the laudanum calling him home.

Stretching his right leg, he winced. The pain was still there, but the hurt had diluted into the known. He was no longer as whole as he once had been, but the shock had receded somewhat and a sort of resigned acceptance had followed.

Drawing again on his cheroot, he enjoyed the earthy mellow taste of tobacco. He’d have liked a brandy along with it, but had made it his purpose to rise above multiple vices with a dedicated resolve and he seldom gave in to any craving now without a fight. The opium and morphine had long gone and for that he was glad, but he still remembered the hell of a job he’d had to get off it as if it were yesterday.

Three hours until he saw his sister. The contrast between what he was doing and thinking here and now and all the expectations required for later amused him. For so long he’d been a hidden person and the thought of attending a gathering of those with the sole devotion to do good works made him tense. He was far from being a saint.

Lifting up the thin book on his lap, he let it slip to the floor, its spine flattening open on the parquet. A Journal of a Voyage Round the World.

Jasper wondered why he read such things, given he had never been to the far-flung destinations Captain James Cook had been wont to in his tiny boat and was hardly likely to, but something inside sought the incredible drama of lives lived to the very edge.

He wanted a release from himself and he reasoned worlds far from his own reality might almost give him that. It was comforting reading about men who risked everything for the pursuit of something far greater than themselves. Men who pushed the boundaries and reaped the results.

The clock on the mantel boomed out the hour of eleven and he watched the minute hand move around the numbers below it. A second. A minute. An hour. A day. A year. A decade. A lifetime.

Lists reassured him because they signified control. One followed the next. In order. In sequence. He could recite all the components of endless directories he’d memorised with ease and often did so.

Was this the beginning of the slide down into despondency? Like his father? That thought worried him and he leaned back against numerous carefully positioned pillows and breathed out.

Even his slumber now held an unchanged and precise structure and he longed to return to the time when he could’ve slept anywhere. The time when release came simply with the closing of one’s eyes.

So many damned years ago. When he was fit and whole. He grimaced as his foot lost its purchase on the sheets and his injured leg jolted.

A doctor’s visit was in order again. He knew it. The metal was still in his thigh, scraping against bone and moving in ways that his body recognised as dangerous. Sometimes he almost wished that which was foreign inside him might just enter into his bloodstream and that would be the end of it. A physician had told him such a catastrophe was eminently possible and the horror he’d once felt at such a warning was waning.

Pushing back the covers, he sat on the side of the bed. He needed to shave and have his hair cut. He needed to lighten up. He needed to live again as though every day might be his last, but Christmas was coming soon and the whole idea of such an enforced joviality made him tired.

Meghan had had a baby earlier in the year and she wanted him to be more of a part of her family life in order to get to know his niece, Sarah. She was worried for him. He could tell that she was.

Just thinking about baby Sarah made him smile. She was fat and hairless and the rings of flesh around all the parts of her body transformed her into a tiny Buddha just waiting for her chance to rule. He’d never thought about children much until meeting her and she had stolen his heart at the very first sight of her toothless smile.

He’d bought a doll’s house to give her at Christmas and he’d had small figurines of their family made by a craftsman in Liverpool. His own image had surprised him for in porcelain he looked a lot more gregarious than he felt he ever did in real life. He hoped his sister would like the present for she’d seemed exhausted lately, the chaotic household all about her adding to her fatigue.

He should be more thankful of the silence in his town house, for a few hours in the company of his sister and her offspring usually saw him scrambling back to Piccadilly in relief. The bank drafts he’d arranged each month for Meghan had brought a little escape for her from the constant worry of financial hardship and although Jasper would have liked to have donated more, his sister’s husband, Stephen Gibson, was a proud man and had refused the offer. Instead, Jasper had set up a further trust fund for his niece and given Meghan the rights of withdrawal from it.

A knock at his door had him turning and his valet, Hutton, walked in.

‘I’ve clothes for your outing, sir, and would recommend you take the thicker wool coat. It’s cold today.’

‘Almost snowing.’ A quick observation out of the window showed purple clouds on the horizon that were trailing quickly south.

‘Your sister sent a note just to reiterate that she will meet you at the address she told you of. She hopes you will not be late.’

‘Thank you, Hutton.’

‘Very well, sir.’ The man hesitated. ‘There is another matter, sir. A letter arrived a moment ago and the delivery boy asked if you could see to it straight away.’

Hutton proceeded to place a lilac envelope sealed with wax of the same colour in Jasper’s hand. A feminine missive. He recognised the handwriting on the front and his heart sank. Verity Chambers was becoming increasingly forward with her actions in contacting him and he would need to deal with her firmly. However, he could not quite face doing so today.

Balling up the missive, he aimed for the rubbish bin on one side of the room and the small paper flew over in an arc and landed neatly in.

‘Well done, sir.’

He smiled. ‘That will be all for now.’

He’d made a lucky escape from marriage to Miss Chambers three years ago even though at the time he had not thought it. With renewed purpose Jasper opened his book again and went back to his reading.

Lottie wondered momentarily about the wisdom of walking alone across London to a function she had received no official invitation to attend. Her cough had worsened rapidly and there was a wry irony in that. The weather had worsened as well, the snow that had been holding off now falling lightly. Brushing the gathering flakes from her cloak, she bent her head into the wind.

She had exaggerated her small sickness to escape Lady Malverly’s party in the country and pleaded instead to be left at the Fairclough Foundation in the care of her maid until she could join Mama and Amelia in a fortnight’s time. Her family had left two days ago and this morning she was suddenly a lot more ill than she wanted to be, but at least the deception had allowed her plan to be put in place.

The small group of youths came from nowhere on the eastern edge of Great Peter’s Road and surrounded her, leaving her to clutch her reticule to her chest with more force than she meant.

‘Go away, the lot of you.’ It never paid to show any sort of fear, but in truth her heart was beating fast. ‘Go back to where you belong and leave me alone. I have nothing at all that you could want.’

‘Do you not now?’ The largest boy at the front looked her over. ‘Seems to me you are mighty pretty to be alone.’

‘If you touch me, I will hurt you.’

Blackened teeth showed. ‘How did you plan to do that? You are a little on the small side.’

‘The crushing of a foe holds no correlation with the size of one’s muscles. It’s all here, you see, in the head. Give me one moment to lay you out flat on the road or be gone. I have no time to tarry.’

Such confidence seemed to quell a little of the bravado displayed by the group and Lottie pushed her advantage.

‘Well, hurry up. What’s it to be? A fight or the wisdom to retreat?’

‘You ain’t scared, miss?’ A boy from behind the first asked this question, his eyes full of puzzlement.

‘Of course not. I see boys just like you around the Fairclough Foundation on Howick Place, but its seldom one has the temerity to threaten me.’

‘Miss Fairclough?’ Another lanky youth detached himself from the group. ‘It’s you?’

‘Indeed it is.’ She squinted to see his face better, not wanting to extricate her spectacles from the bag which had begun all this nonsense in the first place and draw notice to her possessions. ‘Who are you?’

‘My cousin, Emmeline Fraser, is learning to sew at your school. She loves going there.’

The tone of the group had subtly changed now. It was something to steal from a stranger and quite another thing to do it from a friend.

‘Emmeline’s mother no doubt would be most upset to hear about this awkward meeting then should I find the need to tell her of it.’

The first challenger had stepped back now and the others had followed. She used such indecision to her advantage.

‘Well, I shall bid you all goodbye and I hope next time we see each other it might be in happier circumstances.’

The passageway was opened to her and Lottie stepped through, taking care to lift her skirts over the drain that ran down the middle of the road. The hard anger inside had lessened now, but fright lingered. She really ought to have taken her maid, Claire, with her today as the walk was a reasonable distance and a further fracas was something she did not need.

Smoothing down her golden skirt, she tidied the tendrils of her hair and took in a deep breath.

She could not afford to lose heart if she stood any chance of completing what she had set out to do. Shoving her thick woollen cloak back, she checked to make sure the note she had spent a long time writing last night was still in her pocket. If words failed her at least, she had this to give him. Mr Jasper King. She hoped all this effort would come to something.

After the unsettling meeting with the street youths Lottie wondered if she could still manage to complete her task. Shaking her head hard, she stepped forward. Of course she could. If she were to fail then her sister Millie would marry a man who was overzealous, ridiculous and pedantic to boot and she would be miserable. Lottie could not let that happen.

After walking another quarter of an hour, the streets held a greater cleanliness and beauty and she loosened her guard a little. Great George Street had a different feel from the narrow dank alleyways that sat in the shadows of Westminster Abbey and she was glad to have arrived there.

Jasper King’s sister was called Mrs Gibson, a woman she had met once a few years ago on a committee set up for the Betterment of Women at Risk. Lottie prayed she would remember their association and allow her entrance, but this was just another problem on a day of many. She sniffed and felt red-raw pain sear her throat. She had lost her handkerchief somewhere and had not thought to add a spare to the contents of her reticule.

Her nose was dripping.

Using the back of her hand so as not to stain her dress, she wiped away the moisture, looking up at the house she had finally reached just as the sun came out, its brightness reflecting upon the glass and sending a shaft of light down on the street before her.

Perhaps this was an omen? Perhaps right at this moment Millie was already being courted at the party in the country by a man for whom she could hold a tendre. Lottie frowned even as the thought of what she was doing here had her crossing her heart, such a deception probably the worst idea she had ever concocted.

Lady Alexandra’s parties had always been full of people for whom Lottie held little liking, with their penchant for the chitter-chatter of nonsense and shared gossip. It had been a relief when Mama had agreed to allow her to stay at home in the company of her maid until she was feeling a bit better.

Jasper King held the answer to all their prayers. He might also know where her brother Silas was, for although she hated to admit to worry, it was most definitely there. Seven months without correspondence was an inordinately long time, even for her adventurous sibling.

Two young women in front of her stopped to look around as she took the first step towards the front door. Dressed beautifully, they gave the impression of questioning her presence here, but Lottie was as easily at home with the rich as she was with the poor.

‘Good morning.’ Her voice was as friendly as she could make it. ‘My goodness, can you believe that it is only a few weeks until Christmas and so very much to do.’

‘That is exactly what we were just saying, wasn’t it, Rachael? The year just passes by so quickly and suddenly it is the Season of Hard Work again.’ The taller woman looked far more agreeable now, holding the door open for Lottie to follow them. Without an invitation in hand she hurried up behind them and continued the conversation, smiling at the stern-looking servant who stood back from the front door and was seeing to cloaks and hats.

‘Thank you.’ With relief, she accompanied the others into a salon to the right side of the entrance, accepting a glass of white wine from another servant who stood with a silver tray filled with drinks.

The wine fortified her and made her feel warm again, the alcohol bolstering up both courage and anticipation. She knew no one at all, the two women she had spoken to having disappeared off into the far corners of the large salon. Still, she did not falter, looking around with hope as she came inside the room. He had to be here somewhere—Mr King with his velvet eyes and his beautiful smile—but she could not see him, the chatter in the crowd growing with each passing moment as more people arrived. How much did a person change in eight years? She prayed that she would recognise him.

She should put her spectacles on, she knew that, but some sort of personal vanity stopped her from retrieving them from her reticule. ‘Best foot forward’ resounded in her brain and she smiled as yet another of Nanny Beth’s sayings was remembered.

Thank goodness for her new gown, she thought, and as a wave of missing her mother and sister assailed her she moved on into the back salon proper.

Here the crush was worse than in the front room and, spying a window seat to one side, she made for it and sat. This would be a good vantage point, slightly elevated and comfortable. Her nose had begun to run again and she wiped the end of it with her hand, turning the wet palm into her skirt after she had done so and smiling vapidly.

‘Act as if you were born to be a queen,’ Nanny Beth used to say when they were children making their annual sojourn to the country and to another Malverly party. If there was anyone with a life that had been more difficult or more broad than her surrogate grandmother’s, Lottie had yet to meet them and so any advice was always heeded.

Lifting her chin, she did not waver and when she caught her image in the glass to her left she thought even her normally wayward hair was obeying Nanny’s long-ago command. The day spiralled in on her and she closed her eyes for a moment to savour the success of her plan.

‘Please Lord, let this work. Please let Mr Jasper King be here among the melee and please let him listen.’

Jasper stood at the top of the landing and looked around. His sister was here somewhere; all the good works she was involved in culminating in this Christmas charity event. Even as he thought this he found Meghan chatting to this person and laughing with that one.

Civil engineering, the family company, King Enterprises, and the great pressure of work that came with it had made him too busy for all this. He couldn’t remember coming anywhere near the social scene much, even before injuring his leg, and he was pleased to see a footman conveying wine.

Good wine, he amended a moment later, and, returning his glass, procured another of the same ilk. Fortified, he could probably do a better job here and he knew his sister would spend a good hour with him afterwards dissecting all the conversations they’d had.

A voice from the past made him turn and there before him stood Miss Susan Seymour, a friend of Verity Chambers, the woman he’d imagined himself to be deeply in love with three years ago before his whole world had fallen to pieces.

‘My God, is it you? Mr King? Verity said you were back in London. You do know that she has been trying to get in touch with you, don’t you?’ Susan Seymour was cut from the same cloth as Verity Chambers, her alabaster skin flawless and her eyes blue. Both had been beautiful women and Susan still was. The light caught the blonde tints in her hair and her high-necked bodice was particularly flattering. ‘I cannot quite believe you are back in London in person. You always seemed so immured in the north.’

She moved closer. ‘You knew Verity married Mr Johnny Alworthy a month after she left you, but did you also know that he died just over a year ago in an accident?’

The news was unexpected. ‘I am sorry. I had not heard that.’

‘Oh, it was not the tragedy you might think it,’ Susan Seymour returned, her voice low and husky. ‘As soon as she was married I think she wished she wasn’t. She was always so eminently sensible, but her love affair with Alworthy dissipated all that in a moment and was something I could never understand. Personally, I do not think she can now, either.’

The shocking truth of that statement left him marooned, as did Susan Seymour’s hand resting on his arm. The wine quickly drunk was also doing its bit to make him feel dislocated and all he hoped for was that his sister might come looking for him and interrupt.

‘It was her mistake to say goodbye to you, of course, and God knows why she did so?’ She let that question slide as he failed to answer. ‘Verity has not been happy since, so I can only surmise that being young has its pitfalls and they were ones she just could not have possibly predicted.’ This was said with intensity as her fingers squeezed his arm. Her eyes were full of question.

Jasper refused to be drawn into explanation. ‘Well, now we are all older and much wiser. Thank God.’

‘Older, perhaps, but you’ve created quite a stir here today. I have been hearing your name right across the room.’

‘My sister is one of the sponsors—’ he said, but Susan Seymour interrupted him, eyes alive in interest.

‘I do not think it is your sister the women are interested in. You have built up King Enterprises to be a powerful and well-known company, your influence in all areas of business a common topic of people’s conversation. It is you they wish to know better, Jasper, a man they admire.’

The use of his Christian name and such overt flirtation had him stepping back. ‘When you do see Mrs Alworthy, please tell her that I send my regards, but I am not planning on staying in London for long.’

‘Then that is a shame and I know she will be sorry for it. As will I.’

With a forced smile Jasper took his leave and walked towards the large windows on one side of the room. Here at least there was space to breathe, for the conversation with Susan Seymour had shocked him.

‘God, help me.’ The words escaped unbidden as he stopped and a woman he had failed to see sitting beside him glanced up and stood.

‘My thoughts exactly, but you at least look like you fit in here.’

‘And you don’t?’

She was petite and well formed, her hair a wild bunch of escaping curls and her irises the colour of old whisky. She also had dimples, deep ones in each cheek.

‘I am only here to meet someone, but unfortunately I cannot see him anywhere.’ As she stated this she craned her neck as though having one final look.

‘Who is it? Perhaps I would know of him?’

‘Mr Jasper King. He is the owner of an engineering company that builds railways and bridges all across England.’ A slight blush covered her cheeks.

The jolt of shock as she mentioned his name came unexpectedly. Jasper was seldom surprised by anyone any more and the feeling took him aback.

‘And who are you?’

‘Miss Charlotte Fairclough. My sister Amelia and our mama and I run the Fairclough Foundation for needy women and their children in Howick Place in Westminster.’

Through the haze of the past Jasper remembered seeing a younger version of this woman huddled against an upstairs banister as he had come to pay his regards to her sister after some ball. Charlotte? She had had another name then and he sought to recollect it. As if she had read his thoughts she continued.

‘But people more often call me Lottie.’

‘I think Charlotte suits you better.’ God, what the hell had made him say that to her, such a personal and familiar declaration? But if she was startled by his words she certainly did not show it.

‘I always thought that, too. For a little while I insisted everyone use my full name but old habits soon crept back in and now hardly anyone uses it. Well, Mama does when she is cross at me, which actually is quite often, but otherwise it is Lottie. Plain and simple.’

The babble of her words was somehow comforting. After the surprise of seeing Susan Seymour and all the undercurrents there, this conversation was easy and different. He leaned back against the wall and decided to stay put for a while. What was it Miss Fairclough wanted of him, though? He could not think of any reason why she would seek him out unless it was something to do with her brother. Before he could be honest and tell her his name she had already gone off on another tangent.

‘Are you married, sir?’

‘I am not.’ He tried to keep the relief from his words.

‘But would you want to be? Married, I mean? One day?’

She was observing him as if she were a scientist and he was an undiscovered species. One which might be the answer to an age-old question. One from whom she could obtain useful information about the state of Holy Matrimony.

‘It would depend on the woman.’ He couldn’t remember in his life a more unusual conversation. Was she in the market for a groom or was it for someone else she asked?

‘But you are not averse to the idea of it?’ She blurted this out. ‘If she was the right one?’

Lord, was she proposing to him? Was this some wild joke that would be exposed in the next moment or two? Had the Fairclough family fallen down on their luck and she saw his fortune as some sort of a solution? Thoughts spun quickly, one on top of another and suddenly he’d had enough. ‘Where the hell is your brother, Miss Fairclough?’

She looked at him blankly. ‘Pardon?’

‘Silas. Why is he not here with you and seeing to your needs?’

‘You know my brother?’

Her eyes were not quite focused on him, he thought then, and wondered momentarily if she could be using some drug to alter perception. But surely not. The Faircloughs were known near and far for their godly works and charitable ways. It was his own appalling past that was colouring such thoughts.

‘I do know him. I employed him once in my engineering firm.’

‘Oh, my goodness.’ She fumbled then for the bag on the floor in front of her, a decent-sized reticule full of belongings. Finally, she extracted some spectacles. He saw they’d been broken, one arm tied on firmly with a piece of string. When she had them in place her eyes widened in shock.

‘It is you.’

‘I am afraid so.’

‘Hell.’

That sounded neither godly nor saintly and everything he believed of Miss Charlotte Fairclough was again turned upside down.