Читать книгу The Cinderella Countess - Sophia James - Страница 10

Miss Smith was sitting on the front doorstep of her Whitechapel house when his carriage pulled up to the corner on the dot of nine. She held a large wicker basket in front of her, covered almost entirely by a dark blue cloth.

The oddness of a woman waiting alone outside her home and completely on time had Lytton waving away the footman as he jumped down to the ground.

Miss Annabelle Smith appeared pleased to see him as she stood, her hand shading her face and the odd shape of her hat sending a shadow down one side of her cheek.

‘I thought perhaps you might have decided not to come,’ she said, her fingers keeping the cloth on her basket anchored in the growing breeze.

The heightened notice of her as a woman he’d felt yesterday returned this morning and Lytton shoved it away.

‘My chaperon will be here in just a moment as Aunt Alicia would not settle until I agreed to have her with me. I hope that is all right with you, your lordship?’

She knew, now, how to address him. He found himself missing the ‘my lord Earl’.

‘Of course.’ The words sounded more distant than he had meant them to be. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, and there was a cut on her thumb. He hoped the injury had not come about in the preparation of his sister’s medicines.

Pulling the three pounds he had ready from his pocket, he offered them to her.

‘If it is too much I quite understand,’ she said, but he shook his head.

‘I can afford it, Miss Smith, and I am grateful that you would consent to attending my sister at such short notice.’

The same velvet purse he had seen yesterday came out of her pocket, the notes carefully tucked within it.

‘It will be useful to buy more supplies for those who cannot pay. There are many such folk here.’

‘You have lived in this house for a while?’

‘We have, your lordship. It is rented, but it is home.’

‘Yet you do not speak with the accent of the East End?’

She looked away, distracted as the same woman he had seen yesterday joined them, busy fingers tying the ribbons on her bonnet.

‘This is my friend, Mrs Rosemary Greene.’

‘We met briefly yesterday. Ma’am.’ He tipped his head and the older woman blushed dark red, but was saved from answering as Annabelle Smith caught at her arm and shepherded her towards the conveyance. When the footman helped each of them up Miss Smith took a deep breath, giving Lytton the impression she did not much wish to get in. He took the seat opposite them as the door closed, listening to the horses being called on.

‘Did you ever read the fairy tale Cendrillon by Charles Perrault, your lordship?’ Her dimples were on display, picked out by the incoming sunshine.

‘I did, Miss Smith.’

‘Your carriage reminds me of that. Ornate and absurdly comfortable.’

‘You read it in French?’

‘When I was a child I lived in France for a time with my aunt.’

The traffic at this time of the morning was busy and they were travelling so slowly it seemed as if all of London was on the road.

The silence inside the carriage lengthened, their last exchange throwing up questions. She did not give the impression of one born abroad for her words held only the accent of English privilege and wealth. How could that be?

He hoped like hell that any of his extended family would not converge on his town house this morning, for he wanted to allow Miss Smith some time to talk with his sister by herself. His mother would be present, of course, but she was lost in her own sadness these days and appeared befuddled most of the time. Today such confusion would aid him.

It was as if Lucy’s sickness had ripped the heart out of the Thorntons and trampled any happiness underfoot. It was probably why he had taken up with Susan Castleton to be honest, Lytton thought, her sense of devil-may-care just the attitude he had needed to counter the constant surge of melancholy.

Miss Smith was watching the passing streets with interest, her fingers laced together and still. When they went around a sharp corner, though, as their speed increased he saw her grasp at the seat beneath her, each knuckle white.

‘It is perfectly safe. My driver is one of the most skilled in London.’

Blue eyes washed over him and then looked back to the outside vistas.

‘People more usually come to see me, your lordship.’

‘You don’t use hackneys, then?’

‘Never.’

This was stated in such a way that left little room for debate and Mrs Greene caught his eye as he frowned, an awkward worry across her face.

Portman Square was now coming into view, the façade of his town house standing on one corner. He hoped that Annabelle Smith would not be flustered by the wealth of it, for in comparison to her living quarters in Whitechapel it suddenly looked enormous.

As they alighted an expression unlike any he had ever seen briefly crossed her face. Shock, he thought, and pure horror, her pallor white and the pulse at her throat fast. His hand reached out to take her arm as he imagined she might simply faint.

‘Are you well, Miss Smith?’

He saw the comprehension of what she had shown him reach her eyes, her shoulders stiffening, but she did not let him go, her fingers grabbing at the material of his jacket.

Then the door opened and his mother stood there, black fury on her face.

‘You cannot bring your doxies into this house, Thornton. I shall simply not allow it. Your valet has told me you were in the company of one of your mistresses, Mrs Castleton, last night and now you dare to bring in these two this morning. Your father, bless his soul, would be rolling in his grave and as for your sister...’

She stopped and twisted a large kerchief, dabbing at her nose as she left them, a discomfited silence all around.

‘I am sorry. My mother is not herself.’

It was all he could think to say, the fury roiling inside him pressed down. He needed Annabelle Smith to see his sister, that was his overriding thought, and he would deal with his mother’s unexpected accusations when he could.

* * *

The Earl of Thornton kept mistresses and his mother thought she and Rosemary were fallen woman? The haze of seeing the Thornton town house dispersed under such a ludicrous assassination of her character and if there had not been a patient inside awaiting she would have simply insisted upon being taken home.

This behaviour was so common with the very wealthy, this complete and utter disregard for others, and if the Earl had somehow inveigled her into thinking differently then the more fool she.

It was why Belle had always made it a policy to never do business with the aristocracy, her few very early forays into providing remedies for the wealthy ending in disaster. They either did not pay or they looked down their noses at her. However, she’d had none of the overt hatred shown by the Earl’s mother.

Well, here at least she had already been paid, the three-pound fee tucked firmly into her purse.

The Earl looked furious, the muscles in his jaw working up and down and as they entered into the entrance proper he asked them if they might wait for just a moment.

‘Yes of course, your lordship.’ As Rosemary answered she drew Annabelle over to a set of comfortable-looking armchairs arranged around a table, a vase of pastel-shaded flowers upon it that were made of dyed silk.

Belle sat in a haze, the smell of polish and cleaning product in the air. Everything was as familiar as it was strange and she could not understand this at all. She had seen a house just like this one in her dreams: the winding staircase, the black and white tiles, the numerous doors that led off the entrance hall to elaborately dressed and furnished salons, portraits of the past arranged solemnly on the walls up and down the staircase.

‘What on earth is wrong with you, Belle? You look like you have seen a ghost.’

‘I think I have.’

‘I cannot believe the Earl’s mother would have thought we were doxies.’ Rose looked horrified as she rearranged the red and green scarf draped about her neck into a more concealing style.

‘She has probably never seen one before and I suppose we dress differently from the people who live around here.’

Belle hoped the woman would not return to find them again just as she prayed she could have asked for her coat and hat and left.

But she’d been paid well for a consultation and the carriage outside had rumbled on already down the street. Their only avenue of escape was the Earl. He suddenly came down the passageway to one side, another servant accompanying him.

‘My sister’s suite is this way. There is a sitting room just outside if Mrs Greene would feel comfortable waiting there.’

Rose nodded and so did Belle, this visit becoming more and more exhausting. She did not truly feel up to the task of reassuring a young, sick and aristocratic patient, but had no true way to relay that to the Earl of Thornton without appearing ridiculous. Still, if his awful mother was there with more of her accusations she would turn and go.

As they mounted the staircase the smell of camphor rose from her basket and Annabelle presumed the container in it had fallen over. Removing the fabric, she righted it and jammed it in more tightly against the wad of bandages at its side.

The light was dimmer now and the noises from the street and the house more distant. The scent of sickness was present, too, her nostrils flaring to pick up any undertones of disease. Surprisingly there were none, a fact that had her frowning.

‘If you could wait here, Mrs Greene, it would be appreciated. My sister in her present state is not good at receiving strangers and one new face is probably enough for now.’

Seeing Rose settled Belle followed the Earl through a further anteroom, which opened into a large and beautiful bedchamber, full of the accoutrements of ill health and all the shades half-drawn. There were medicine bottles as well as basins and cloths on a long table. Vases full of flowers decorated every other flat surface.

At the side of the bed a maid sat, but she instantly stood and went from the room, though there had been no gesture from the Earl to ask her to leave.

‘Lucy?’ The Earl’s voice was softer, a tenderness there that had been missing in every other conversation Belle had had with him. ‘Miss Smith is come to see you. The herbalist I told you of.’

‘I do not want another medical person here, Thorn. I’ve said that. I just want to be left alone.’

The tone of the voice was strong. A further oddness. If Lady Lucy had been in bed for this many weeks and deathly ill she would have sounded more fragile.

She had burrowed in under the blankets, only the top of her golden head seen. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick, every single one of them, but there was no discolouration of the nail beds.

‘Miss Smith is well thought of in her parish of Whitechapel. She seldom visits outside her home area, so in this we are more than fortunate.’

‘Where is Mother?’

‘I asked her to stay in her room.’

‘She is being impossible this morning. I wish she might return to Balmain and leave me here with you. How old is Miss Smith?’

‘See for yourself. She is right here.’

The blanket stilled and then a face popped out from the rumpled wool. A gaunt face of wrecked beauty, the hair cut into slivers of ill-fashioned spikes.

Belle hoped she did not look surprised, the first impressions between a patient and a healer important ones.

‘You are not too...old.’ This came from Lucy.

‘I am thirty-two next week. It seems inordinately old to me. But what is the alternative?’

Unexpectedly the young woman smiled. ‘This.’

‘Perhaps,’ Belle said quietly. ‘When did you last eat?’

‘I am no longer hungry. I have broth sometimes.’

‘Could I listen to your pulse?’

‘No. I don’t like to be touched.’

‘Never?’ Surprise threaded into her words. ‘Who has examined you then?’

‘No one. I do not allow it. It can be seen from a distance that my malady is taking the life from me. All sorts of medicines have been tried. And have failed. One doctor did touch me against all my will and bled me twice. Now I just wish to die. It will be easier for everyone.’

Belle heard the Earl draw in a breath and felt a huge sorrow for him.

‘Could I sit with you for a moment, Miss Staines? Alone?’

‘Without my brother, you mean. Without anyone here. I do not know if...’

But the Earl had already gone, walking like a ghost towards the door, his footsteps quiet.

Belle waited for a moment and closed her eyes. There was so much to be found in silence. The girl’s breathing was fast and a little shallow, but there was no underlying disease in her passageways. She moved her feet a lot, indicating a nervous disposition. She could hear the sound of the sheets rustling and Lady Lucy sniffed twice. She was coming down with a cold, perhaps, though her constitution sounded robust.

Opening her eyes, Belle looked at her patient directly, the golden glance of the Earl’s sister flecked with a darker yellow.

‘Why do you lie, Miss Staines?’

‘Pardon?’ A shocked breath was drawn in with haste.

‘There is no disease in your body. But what is there is something you need to speak of.’

‘You cannot know this.’ These words were small and sharp.

‘Today I shall run camphor across your chest and peppermint under the soles of your feet. If I was you, I should then begin to take an interest in the world. Tomorrow I shall return with different medicines. A week should be enough for you to start getting up again and then we can face the problem that is the true reason why you have taken to your bed.’

‘Problem?’

‘Think about it. Your family is suffering from the charade you are putting them through and if the physicians they have dispatched to attend to your needs have never delved deeper into the truth of what ails you then that is their poor practice. But it is time now to face up to what has happened to you and live again in any way that you can.’

‘Get out.’

Belle stood, her heart hammering. ‘I am sorry, but I will not. Only with good sense can you face what must come next because, believe it or not, this is the way of life. A set back and then a triumph. Yours will be spectacular.’

‘Are you a witch, Miss Smith? One of the occult?’

‘Perhaps.’ Her reply came with a fervour. This girl needed to believe in her words or otherwise she would be lost. ‘Magic is something that you now require so I want you to unbutton your nightdress and I will find my camphor.’

* * *

Ten minutes later she was downstairs again and the Earl of Thornton had recalled his conveyance.

‘I am sorry I cannot accompany you back to Whitechapel, Miss Smith, but I have other business in the city. You said that you’d told my sister that you would be back on the morrow so I shall make sure my conveyance is outside your house again at nine.’

‘No. Tomorrow we shall find our own way. But have the maid bring up a plate of chicken broth with a small crust of bread for your sister. Tell her that such sustenance will do her good and I will be asking after how much she has eaten.’

‘Very well. Thank you.’

The Earl did not believe that his sister would deign to eat anything. He was disappointed in her short visit, too, Belle could tell, the smell of camphor and peppermint the only tangible evidence of her doctoring. He imagined her a quack and a charlatan and an expensive one at that and would continue to do so unless his sister took her advice.

She tipped her head and turned for the pathway, unsurprised when the door was closed behind them.

* * *

Once home she sought out her aunt where she sat in the small alcove off the kitchen.

‘I recognised the Earl of Thornton’s house, Tante Alicia. I think I knew one just like it.’

Her aunt simply stared at her.

‘It was similar to the house in my dreams. The one I told you about.’

‘I always said that you were an auld one, Annabelle, a traveller who has been here before in another lifetime.’

‘Who are they, Alicia? The people I remember who are dressed like those at the Thornton town house.’

‘I have told you again and again that there are no ghosts who stalk you and that I do not know of these people you see.’

‘Then who were my parents?’

‘I never met them. I took you in when a nun from the convent in the village asked it of me. A sick child from England who was placed in the hands of the lord when a servant brought her there, to the church of Notre-Dame de la Nativité. Maria, the nun, was English herself and spoke with you every day for years until your French was fluent and you could cope. That is all I know. I wish there had been more, but there was not. I’d imagined you would stay with me for only a matter of weeks, but when no one came back to claim you and the months went on...’ She stopped, regathering herself. ‘By then you were the child I had never had and I prayed to our lord every day that the situation would continue, that I would not have to give you up because that would have broken my heart.’

They had been through all this before so many times. It all made perfect sense and yet...

Today Lady Lucy had made perfect sense to her as well, hiding there in her bed in a darkened room where no one could get to her. She had stopped eating. She had ceased to want to live. The anger in Belle surfaced with a suddenness that she did not conceal.

Everyone was lying.

Her aunt.

Lady Lucy.

Even the handsome Earl of Thornton with his succession of mistresses and his bitter mother.

Taking leave of her aunt and walking to her own room, Belle lifted up a paintbrush, dipping it in oil and mixing it with red powder after finding a sheet of paper.

Nothing was real. Everything was false. She liked the banal deceiving strokes she drew as they ran across the truth and banished it. Lives built on falsity. Paintings borne on fury. Lady Lucy was young and well brought up. Belle wanted to kill the man who had left her the wreck that she was, but as yet there could be only the small and quiet steps of acceptance before the healing began.

* * *

Lytton spent the afternoon entwined in the arms of the beautiful widow Mrs Susan Castleton in the rooms he had provided for her in Kensington.

She had impeccable taste, he would give her that, but what had been wonderful, even as recent as last week, now was not.

His mother’s words had stung and the look on Miss Annabelle Smith’s face had stung further.

Why did the healer have to be so damned unusual? His sister had gulped down the broth and the crust and asked for a cup of tea to finish her lunch with. She had not eaten properly in weeks and now after a ten-minute visit with the contrary Miss Smith she was suddenly pulling herself out of the mire. Lucy thought she was a witch and had told him so, a woman of fearful evil and unspeakable power. She did not wish for her to visit again.

Well, if a witch could cajole his sister into re-joining the real world then so be it, and her alchemy would certainly be welcome in his town house after the disappointing efforts of all the other renowned physicians. He would be asking her back.

‘You are so very well formed, Thornton.’ The whisper in his ear had him turning, Susan’s chestnut curls trailing across his chest when she tweaked his nipple, her body nudging his own in further invitation.

God, she was insatiable. When he had first met her he could barely believe his luck, but now...now he wondered if she might squeeze all the life from him and leave him as much a wreck as his sister.

‘I want to eat you up. All of you.’

Her words were so like what he had just been thinking that he pushed her from him and sat up.

He didn’t want this any more, this salacious liaison so far away from what he knew to be right. Even a few weeks ago he would have found such passion exciting. Now all he wanted to do was escape.

‘I need to go, Susan. I am not sure if I shall be back.’

If this was too brutal for her then he was sorry for it, but he disliked lying. To anyone.

‘You joke, surely, Thornton. We have been here all afternoon feeding off one another.’

The further reference to food made him stand and find his clothes. Fumbling with the one ring he wore today, he twisted it from his finger.

‘It is worth the price of the rent on this place for at least another year. I thank you for your patience with me, but now it is finished. I can’t do this any more.’

Tears began to fall down her cheeks. ‘You cannot possibly be serious, Thornton. I love you, I love you with all my heart and—’

He stopped her by placing a finger across her generous reddened lips.

‘You loved Derwent a year ago and you loved Marcus Merryweather before that. There will be another after me.’

As he walked away, garments in hand, she picked up a vase and threw it at him hard, the glass smashing against the side of his head and drawing blood as it shattered.

‘You will regret this, I swear it. No one will ever make love to you in the way I have, especially one whom you might take as a wife. They are all cold and wooden and witless.’

Hell. Had Aurelian or Edward said something publicly of his plans to be married before the end of the Season? He hoped not. If that happened he would have a hundred mamas and their chicks upon him, courting him with guile and hope.

The day that had begun strangely just seemed to get stranger. He could feel warm blood running across one cheek and yet he couldn’t go home because his mother was prowling through the corridors of his town house and Lucy had spent almost the entire morning crying.

His younger brother was in trouble again with his school and Prudence, his oldest sister, was in Rome seeing the sights with her new husband. He would have liked to talk with her, but she was not due back for at least a few months, skipping out of England with a haste that was unbecoming.

No one in his entire family was coping. His father’s death the Christmas before last had seen to that and here he was, bogged down by the responsibility of a title he’d little reason to like and a mistress who had just tried to kill him.

Once he had been free and unburdened. Now every man and his dog wanted a piece of him. Once the most reading he had done was to glance at the IOUs from the gambling tables where his luck never seemed to run out. Now it was writing reports, filling out forms and doing all the myriad other things a large and complicated estate required.

He had barely come up for air in weeks save in the bed of Susan Castleton, but that was now also lost to him. He couldn’t regret this even a bit, he thought, as he finished dressing and made his leave.

He’d spend the evening at White’s and when the place closed he’d go to Edward Tully’s town house. At least Derwent would understand his fading interest in a woman whom he, too, had once been intimate with.

* * *

‘You need to go abroad, Thorn, and escape your family.’ Edward’s words were said with the edge of strong cognac upon them.

‘Easy for you to say with your father still hale and hearty and an older brother who will take on the heavy mantle of the title.’

Edward laughed as he upended yet another glass of cognac and gestured to a servant going by to bring another bottle. ‘How are the marriage plans going?’

Lytton swore.

He’d confided in Lian and Edward about his intention to marry as a result of Lucy’s ill health, his own mortality staring him in the face. He now wished he hadn’t.

‘Wide hips and a passable face wasn’t it?’ Edward plainly saw a humour that Lytton himself did not. ‘The first girl you saw with both qualifications?’

‘I was drunk.’

‘More drunk than you are tonight?’

At that Lytton laughed. ‘More drunk and also happier, possibly.’

‘Well, Lian is happy and so is Shay. Perhaps a wife is the answer. A woman of substance. No shallow-brained ingénue or experienced courtesan.’

‘And where are those women?’ Lytton asked. ‘Shay found Celeste in the underbelly of Napoleon’s Paris and Lian’s Violet was thrown up from the greed of treason and lost gold.’

‘Stuart Townsend said he saw you this morning in a carriage with a woman he did not recognise, Thorn. He said she looked interesting?’

Lytton shook his head. For some reason he did not want to talk of Annabelle Smith. His whole family must have disappointed her today and he did not wish to continue the trend. He stayed silent.

‘And the fact that you will not speak of her makes it even more interesting.’

He stood. ‘I think I need to go home, Edward, and sleep. For a hundred years, if I only could.’

‘There’s a masked ball at the Seymours’ tomorrow evening. Come with me to that and blow away a few cobwebs.’

‘Perhaps I might. I will send you word in the morning.’

Outside the sky was clearer and the stars were out. A vibrant endless heaven, Lytton thought, enjoying the fresh air. He had meant to stay at Edward’s, but suddenly wanted to be home.

Annabelle Smith was due tomorrow again at the ungodly hour of nine and he did not want to miss seeing her. That thought worried him more than any other.