Читать книгу Ruined By The Reckless Viscount - Sophia James - Страница 11

Chapter Three

‘I think you are a veritable tease, Lord Winterton, and if half the things that are said of you are true I should imagine you find us very dull.’

James glanced down at Miss Julia Heron, soft blonde ringlets falling around her face and smiling brown eyes. One of the beauties of the Season, it was said, though there was a wide ring of other young ladies around her who looked every bit as charming. He wished they would not look at him as if he was the answer to all their heartfelt dreams. He wished he could have simply crossed the floor and left, to feel the rain on his face and puddles beneath his feet, and smell the green of London in the spring.

How he had missed it.

His neck ached as it always did at about this time of the night and he breathed through the pain with a measured practice.

Lady Florentia Hale-Burton was not here, he was sure of it, and from what he had managed to find out about the family in the last few weeks he could well imagine why. His actions on the road across from Hyde Park had ruined the youngest daughter of the Earl of Albany. For marriage. For the hope of a family. For life. For ever.

Her sister was present, though. He had met Lady Maria Warrenden, once Hale-Burton, on the arm of one of his oldest friends as he had alighted from his coach. Roy Warrenden had introduced his wife with pride, giving him her unmarried name to place her in a context and James prayed his surprise and shock had not been noticeable.

She’d showed no recognition of him or his name at all which was a comforting thing leaving him with a decided uncertainty as to what he wanted to do about the whole sordid affair. An apology to the Hale-Burtons would be a good start, but by all accounts the father had taken to bed with a broken spirit and he could well see that his very presence would be a nightmare for the entire family; a memory of a time they would have no want to recall or relive.

Lady Florentia Hale-Burton would be twenty-three now or twenty-four, he thought, and gossip had it she resided in Kent and only occasionally visited town.

James looked around, wishing he could simply leave and figure out his choices in peace, but as it had been only an hour since his arrival he thought any withdrawal would incite comment. Better to have not come at all, he thought, as he swallowed his drink.

Miss Heron before him was weaving her fan this way and that, a dance of wonder he found himself mesmerised with and repelled by, the female tool of flirtation and provocation holding no interest for him.

He had come home to England half the man who had left it, but with twenty times the fortune. There was a certain irony to be found in all he had lost when weighed against that which he had gained, here in a place where money mattered most.

‘You promised me this dance, my lord.’ There was a note of supplication in Julia Heron’s eyes. He could not remember making such a promise and frowned slightly.

It was the way of the London set, he supposed, a world of chimera and delusion underpinned by a steely determination to marry well.

‘I’ve written it in, Lord Winterton,’ Miss Heron insisted, showing him the name placed in small and precise letters upon her dance card.

With a nod, he acquiesced. He’d never particularly liked dancing, but as the orchestra began into a quadrille he was at least grateful that it was not a waltz.

Moving on to the dance floor, James saw that many patrons watched them, smiling in that particular way of those who imagined an oncoming union. The jaded anger inside him rose with the thought and he pressed it down. A crowded ballroom was not the place for excessive introspection or regret.

As he fished about for a subject that might interest the young woman beside him came up with a topic of her own.

‘Papa is having us all drawn by Mr Frederick Rutherford, the artist, my lord. He hopes the portraits will be begun as soon as possible.’

The words were filled with a delight tinged in trepidation.

‘Have you seen anything at all of his work, Lord Winterton?’

James shook his head, the heady world of art a long way from anything he’d ever been interested in. ‘But I am sure he will capture your likeness with alacrity.’

The girl’s face fell. ‘Well, in truth he tends to embellish things with his own interpretation, though Papa says he cannot imagine the man wanting to do so with us.’

‘Because perfection cannot be improved upon?’ He heard the tone of irony quite plainly in his voice, but Julia Heron simply trilled and blushed, her hand tightening around his as her glance came fully upon him.

His heart sank further. He would need to be careful if he were to escape the gossip so often associated with these soirées and emanating from even the simplest of familiarities.

His fortune had singled him out now as highly sought after husband material and if beneath his clothes there lay deeper shades of tragedy no one else here knew of it.

The older Herons were watching them closely, another younger daughter of the same ilk beside them glowering at her sister. When the dance brought them together again Julia had a further question waiting.

‘Are you here in London long, my lord?’

‘Just for the next few weeks, I think, Miss Heron. I am hoping to move west.’

‘To Atherton Abbey?’

‘I see you have heard the rumour.’

‘Who has not, Lord Winterton, for the Abbey is said to be one of the loveliest homes in all of Herefordshire as well as one of the most expensive.’

James gritted his teeth and smiled, glad as the complexity of the quadrille pushed them apart again, though the other woman on one point of the square was unexpected and he tensed as he saw her visage.

Lady Maria Hale-Burton, now the new Lady Warrenden, smiled at him politely. She was taller than her sister and much more rounded. Her hair was darker, too. He waited to see if in private she might mention the plight of her sibling in connection with him, but she did not, chancing instead on a mundane and social propriety.

‘I hope you are enjoying your return to London after so long away, my lord.’ Her voice was soft and carried a slight lisp.

‘I am, thank you. It was good to see your husband again. We were at school together.’

She was about to answer, but the change in the figure took him back to Julia Heron who claimed his arm in the final flurry of the dance, her colour high and her smile wide with enjoyment.

Accompanying the girl back to her parents he gave her his thanks and went to find Roy Warrenden, grateful to see the Baron sitting at a table with a bottle of wine before him and a number of empty glasses, though he was in full conversation with another James had no knowledge of. Maria Warrenden now joined them, brought back to her husband on the arm of an older man whom she promptly thanked. As her dancing partner left she sat down and made her own observations.

‘Roy said you led him astray more than once, Lord Winterton, but your presence here has made his night. He is usually desperate to get home early.’ She laughed heartily, a joyous natural sound that was nothing at all like Julia Heron’s practised society giggle.

‘Are your parents here tonight, Lady Warrenden?’ He’d looked around the room before just in case the visage of Florentia Hale-Burton’s father should be peering back at him, his face full of violent memory, and had been relieved to see no sign of the man.

‘No, I am afraid they seldom venture far from Albany Manor in Kent any more. Papa suffers from bad health, you see, and Mama feels it her duty to be there to wipe his brow.’

‘A woman of responsibility, then?’

‘Or one who enjoys playing the martyr?’ Close up the resemblance between Maria Warrenden and her sister was more noticeable and he found himself observing her with interest even as Roy Warrenden stood and clapped him on the back.

‘It’s good to have you in England, Winter. I saw that my wife managed to find you in the quadrille. She said she was going to try.’ His glance went further afield. ‘I should probably warn you that the Misses Heron are fairly overwhelming and are not ones to take no for an answer lightly either.’

Glancing over, James was concerned to see them all looking his way, eyes full of the hope of more than he had offered them.

Maria laughed at their interest. ‘The Heron girls are handsome, granted, but if I was a man I should not wish to wake up to only beauty each morning.’

Her husband concurred. ‘No, indeed not, my love. Beauty and brains is what you are after, Winter, and the ability to be entertained for every moment of your life. Miss Heron looked particularly chatty in your company?’

‘She was telling me of a portrait she is having done by Mr Frederick Rutherford. Seems the artist holds a reputation here that is more than salutary and he has been commissioned to paint the three sisters.’

Lady Warrenden choked on the drink she had just taken a sip of, but it was the look of consternation in her eyes that was the most arresting.

‘The man is indeed talented.’ Roy had now taken up the conversation and James had the idea it was to give his wife time to recover her equilibrium. ‘But I doubt the Herons will entice the fellow to London, for from my knowledge Rutherford does not do sittings in person.’

‘No, he certainly does not.’ Maria Warrenden was shaking. James could see the tremble of her hands as she placed the glass down on the table, though she immediately dropped them into the thick fabric of her skirt and out of sight. ‘He would be appalled at such an idea, believe me, Viscount Winterton, and I cannot understand how they could think such a thing might happen.’

‘You sound as though you know him well?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Only a little,’ she returned and changed the subject entirely. ‘We will be walking in Hyde Park tomorrow, my lord. Perhaps you might wish to accompany us for the foliage of the trees there this spring is particularly beautiful.’

The past seemed to collide with the present and James shook his head. ‘I am out of town tomorrow, I am afraid.’

‘Of course.’ Maria Warrenden looked uncertain. He would have liked to have asked her of the health of her sister, but could find no way to broach the subject. Perhaps if he met Roy alone one day he could bring her up in a roundabout sort of way. He had no mandate to be truly interested and besides Florentia Hale-Burton could have no wish ever to meet up with him again if the scale of the scandal that had ensued at their last meeting was anything to go by.

He wondered if the youngest Hale-Burton daughter was married and had a family now. He wondered if she was happy...

* * *

Her sister came to her room late that evening, having returned from the Allans’ ball full of a bustling gossip.

‘Lord Winterton graced the ball this evening, Florentia, and the Heron girls were all over him, though in truth I did not see him complaining. I think he had danced with each of them by the end of the evening.’

‘Winterton is the Viscount newly home from the Americas?’ Flora had heard of the man, of course. He was the newest and most interesting addition to the ton, a soldier who had made his fortune in the acquisition of timbers from the east coast and transported them back to London.

‘That’s the one and he is every bit as beautiful as they all say him to be. It’s his eyes, I think, a true clear and pale green. You would love to paint him, Flora, but that’s not my only news. No, indeed, my greatest morsel is that the oldest Heron girl, Miss Julia, apparently told Winterton that Mr Frederick Rutherford would be painting all three daughters at their town house in Portland Square across the next few weeks.’

Florentia put down her book. A true clear and pale green and every bit as beautiful as they say he is. The world tilted slightly and went out of focus, so much so that one of her hands twisted around the base of the chair on which she sat in an attempt to keep herself anchored.

‘Are you all right, Flora? You suddenly look awfully pale.’ Her sister moved closer as Flora made an attempt to smile.

‘I am tired, I suppose, for London is a busy and frantic place when you have been away from it as long as I have.’ Her heart was racing, the clammy sheen of sweat sliding between her breasts. Could it be him? Could her kidnapper have survived? Was he here now in London, living somewhere only a handful of miles from the Warrenden town house? She made an effort to focus.

‘Mr Alfred Ward did ask me to consider the Heron commission in a letter he sent after we met him on Monday, but I declined.’

‘Well, it seems he has not relayed your answer to the prospective clients.’ Maria removed her hat and shook out her hair. ‘I knew something would go wrong with this scheme of yours, Flora. I knew that we could not trust Mr Ward with one meeting. He is a schemer and he wants more and more of you for I could tell from his demeanour and by all the words he did not say. Goodness, if he keeps this up you will be unmasked summarily and then what?’

‘He is a greedy man, Maria, but also an astute one. I told him if I am pressured too much I am inclined to bouts of severe melancholy. I inferred I was...brittle, I suppose, a highly sensitive artist who is not of this world so to speak. The cough helped, I think, though it has left me with a sore throat and a hoarse voice from having to do it so much.’

Maria looked aghast. ‘We should leave London then and just go home.’

Florentia frowned for suddenly she did not want to desert the city with such haste.

A true clear and pale green.

The words kept repeating over and over.

‘Is Lord Winterton married?’

Her sister’s mouth simply dropped open. ‘No. At least I do not think so. He is an old friend of Roy’s, so I could ask him of it. Why would you possibly be interested?’

Ignoring that query, she asked another of her own. ‘But he will be staying here? In London, I mean.’

‘He’s rumoured to be acquiring a substantial home somewhere to the west. He is also rumoured to be dangerous.’

‘In what ways?’

‘In every possible way, I should imagine. He is neither for the faint hearted nor for the timid. He looks as though he could eat the whole world up should he want to and everyone there at the Allans’ ball was a little afraid of him. It’s his wealth, I suppose, and the fact that he is said to have a scar upon his neck that makes it appear as though his head was almost torn completely off from his shoulders at some point long ago. He wears his neckcloth high to hide it.’

‘I see.’ Florentia stood and turned towards the mirror on one wall of her room.

For she did see. Everything. Too much. All of it.

It was him. She knew it. Knew it from the bottom of her racing heart.

She could ruin him in an instant as surely as he had ruined her. She could give her truth out loud and watch him suffer as she had, this lord of the ton with all his wealth and his connections and his beautifulness.

She felt sick and scared and elated and horrified. Every emotion melded into shock and then shattered again into coldness and fear.

But she could not just go home and leave it. To fester and burn and hurt her. Not again. She could not weather another six years like the last ones. The drawing she’d done in the dust of her grove came into recall. Seventy-two months. So very many lines.

‘Did you speak to him, Maria? To Lord Winterton?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he knew your name? Your unmarried one, I mean?’

‘I suppose so. Yes, I remember Roy introduced me by using it. Why? Why should that matter, Florentia? What is it that you are not telling me?’

But Florentia had ceased to listen altogether, lost as she was in her own desperate worry. Did Lord Winterton remember her? Had he recognised the Hale-Burton name? Had the world already tilted in a way that could not be stopped or altered?

The smallness of the room here in the Warrenden town house on Grosvenor Square suddenly felt like a trap and she longed to be out of it, walking and thinking.

She wanted her grove of trees and the soil of Albany Manor, but she wanted the truth even more.

Six years of hiding. It was enough. She just could not do it any more. Not for a day or a moment or a second. She needed to see Winterton, to look upon his face and understand what it was that lay between them, what it was she needed to do.

She could confront him personally or amongst a selected company and yet even that thought made her blanch. Her protections were no longer in place. Her father was ill and Maria’s husband was an old friend. If she told her sister Winterton was the one who had kidnapped her, Roy would imagine it his duty to issue him a challenge and gain a penance.

Winterton was a soldier and from all she had heard he was not timid. Roy wouldn’t stand a chance against him and if he died Maria would be miserable for all the rest of her life. Her parents would suffer, too, and the news would kill her papa. Had not the doctor said he needed to be kept in a calm and safe state of mind if he was to ever have a hope of recovery? Lately he had seemed happier, more himself, and she did not want to compromise that. Everything for nothing, but how could she meet him without being completely exposed in the company of society?

The higgledy-piggledy of it all whirled in her brain around and around until finally one perfect solution presented itself. She turned to her sister and her voice was certain.

‘I should like to draw him, this Lord Winterton. If he is as beautiful as they all say he would be the ideal subject for a sitting. It also sounds as though he could afford to pay. Well.’

Maria’s mouth dropped wide open.

‘You would draw him while you are dressed as a youth? Winterton is no milksop lord who would be easily duped, Florentia.’

‘If he is so very beautiful, I am sure that he would be flattered by the chance to sit for the first and only portrait I am ever likely to do in person. There is also the added advantage that if I complete this commission Mr Ward may leave me alone for a while. Perhaps this portrait is the answer we have been looking for.’

‘You sound strange, Flora, unlike yourself. You have never drawn anyone before in this way, right in front of you—’

Florentia interrupted her. ‘Then perhaps it is well past time that I did, Maria. A new direction, so to speak, a different turning.’

‘And the Herons?’

‘I shall leave London for good after completing the portrait of Viscount Winterton. After that it will all be finished. I can do other paintings to augment our income, but the requirements of Mr Ward will no longer concern me. I will be free of it and you won’t need to worry about anything at all going wrong.’

When her sister had left Flora stood at the window and looked out. There had been so many times in the past six years when she had thought to try to find out about her kidnapper’s family, the cousin Thomas and the woman Acacia Kensington that he had mentioned. But where did she even start to look without attracting attention? Quietly she had trawled through the books of the peerage at Lackington’s because the man she had met was obviously from the aristocracy, but she had never managed to identify anybody, the small information she had more frustrating than none at all. Besides, if she had managed to find out his name what could she have truly gained from it?

Catching her eye in the glass she saw her lips move in the reflection.

‘Please God, just let me understand him.’

* * *

James upended the brandy Roy Warrenden had handed him at Whites and called to the waiter to bring them another.

The night was warm for this time of the year and the windows along the whole east side were open. It had been three days since the Allans’ ball and the most surprising of correspondences had come to his home in St James’s Square yesterday morning.

‘The artist Mr Frederick Rutherford has sent word that he wants to draw me. His agent, a Mr Ward, came to see me late yesterday afternoon.’

For a moment James saw complicity on Roy’s face but dismissed the idea as ludicrous. Maria Warrenden had said they barely knew the fellow and Winter could not see what an ailing reclusive country artist might have in common with a wealthy baron and his wife.

‘The agent intimated this commission would be the first and the last painting done in this manner, the fellow being a very private soul.’

‘I see.’ Roy watched him carefully. ‘And you are agreeable, Winter?’

‘I am not altogether certain, though the fact that he has sought me out personally does interest me.’

‘Perhaps he is intrigued by the way society flocks to your side in admiration, particularly the women?’

James shook his head. ‘I think there is more to it than the fleeting consideration of appearance. Your wife said she knew him slightly. How slightly is that?’

‘Mr Frederick Rutherford made our acquaintance most recently so I should not like to give you any advice as to his sincerity or otherwise based on my knowing his character well.’

‘Your wife has a sister, does she not, a Lady Florentia Hale-Burton if I am not mistaken?’

Horror crossed Roy’s face as he asked it, giving James the impression of something being awfully wrong with the girl. His heartbeat quickened because he did not want to be told her shortcomings were his fault or that her abduction on Mount Street had led to some sort of a mind disorder that had never been resolved.

‘Why do you mention her in conjunction with Frederick Rutherford, Winter?’

‘Pardon?’ The conversation had seemed to have got away from him and he waited for the other to explain the query.

‘Florentia, my sister-in-law, is somewhat timid. She does not enjoy London at all but prefers the quiet of her parents’ home of Albany Manor in Kent. But as to the other matter of the portrait—perhaps it is not to me that you should be addressing your queries. The agent you spoke of would hold a far better understanding of these things.’

With care James swallowed his brandy, liking the way it brought warmth into the coldness.

Secrets and lies. His own and Roy Warrenden’s. There was a sense of wrongness here that he could not quite put his finger on, something held back and concealed and the mystery had to do with the artist Frederick Rutherford, he thought.

‘I think I shall agree to the commission of the portrait, though the price is extremely high.’

‘Well, look at it as a painting for posterity, Winter. A foothold into history.’

‘But I won’t take up the offer of using the agent’s gallery in South London as the place of sitting. I want it done at my place in St James’s.’

‘The lad may find it difficult to get there with all the accoutrements needed for such a task. I doubt any artist is all that flush.’

‘Then I shall send a carriage to pick him up. Where does he reside in London? No one I ask seems to know.’

‘Here, there and everywhere, I expect. Rutherford is like a gypsy in his constant changing of addresses. My wife accompanied him on the first visit to see Alfred Ward, actually, so he spent the night at our town house.’

‘Yes, I had heard of that.’

Warrenden smiled. ‘I thought perhaps that you might have. Rutherford is a chameleon, Winter. You might be wise to get the sittings completed as quickly as you are able and without asking the fellow too many questions.’

‘You think he might abscond otherwise.’

‘I sincerely hope not for I’d like to see him settle,’ Roy replied, ‘and you could be just the one to do it.’

‘You think it might be the beginning of a more lucrative career for him? Already he is a painter with many admirers. Does he wish for more?’

Roy’s laugh was harsh as he stood. ‘I leave you to make your own assessment of his ambition, Winter, when you meet him, but for now I’m off home. I am, however, more than interested in seeing exactly how this romp of yours turns out.’ He stopped for a second as if debating if he should say more. ‘Frank Reading intimated you had returned to England to try and understand something of your father’s untimely demise.’

‘He’s right. I never believed William committed suicide and am looking for the truth of it.’ The words came out with a strained anger that he could no longer bother hiding. He liked Roy Warrenden as he was not a man inclined to gossip.

‘Reading also said he had word you were asking around in the more unsavoury parts of town. Sometimes there are consequences in uncovering secrets, Winter.’

‘And I should welcome them if they allow me to understand more about the nature of my father’s death.’

Roy nodded. ‘Well then, I hope you find some answers that might make more sense to you. If you need any help...?’

James was quick to shake his head. ‘I am better alone, but thank you.’

He watched as Warrenden threaded his way through the last of the patrons of White’s and lifted the bottle of brandy up to pour himself another glass when he could no longer see him.

Roy was not quite telling him the truth about Rutherford, that much was certain. There was some faulty connection, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He knew the Warrendens were better acquainted with the artist than they let on. The lad had returned to their town house on Grosvenor Square for all the nights he’d been in London and once passing by late on an afternoon in his carriage James had noted Maria Warrenden holding the fellow’s hand with more than a little delight.

God, was the sister cuckolding her husband right under his nose? And where the hell did the reclusive Lady Florentia Hale-Burton fit into any of this picture?

* * *

The blow came from behind as he was walking to the corner to hail a hackney cab, a sharp blinding pain that had him on his knees and clambering for consciousness, and all James could think of was that the danger Roy had spoken of had suddenly come to pass.

A boot came next to his face, the edge of the tread connecting with his lip, but the shock was kicking in now and with it came the strength.

Grabbing his assailant by the leg, James brought him down and within a moment he was on top of him, a punch to the side of the head having the effect of keeping the other still.

‘Who the hell are you and what do you want of me?’

‘Perkins sent me, from the Red Fox Inn at the docks. You have been prying around and he don’t like it. It’s him who sends us on to see who is asking too many questions.’

James realised this man was only a messenger boy, all brawn and muscle and no idea at all as to what this was all about. Letting him go, he stood back, watching the fellow collect his hat and move away.

‘Can I speak with Mr Perkins? I’d pay well for a few moments of his time.’

The other nodded. ‘If he wants to talk, you will hear from us.’

With that the stranger turned and disappeared into the night, leaving James to wipe the blood from his lip and find his own hat spilled into the gutter by the unexpected retribution.

His father’s death had rocked him and he had been trying to track down some of William’s gambling partners to get some answers. Suicide was a shameful thing and he could not believe that his father had killed himself. Two parents lost to suicide painted a worrying family weakness, though in his mother the failing was almost to be expected.

He swore again and looked up into the sky. A small rising moon tonight. It had been much the same sort of moon when he had kidnapped Florentia Hale-Burton. Clenching his fists, he lent back against a stone wall and felt in his pocket for both light and a cigar in order to steady himself. He wanted to see her again, to tell her that it had all been a mistake and that he was sorry for it. He wanted to take her hand in his own and let her know that he had not thought her abduction a small thing and that it had changed his life as much as it had ruined her own.

Like a pack of cards, one fell and then the next and the next until finally in the remains of what was left was the realisation that there was nothing at all of value or of honour.

His neck ached and he drew on the cigar, liking the way the red end of it flared in the night and his heartbeat slowed.

Florentia Hale-Burton had had asthma. He wondered if she still had it. She’d had a suitor, too, and a bag full of books. He’d heard her name mentioned in the card room at some ball. It was said that she had always been odd, but that if the Earl of Albany’s girls had made a bit of effort with their appearances they would probably have outshone every other woman in the room.

Perhaps it might be true, though the girl in the carriage had been either unconscious, furious or sick so he had no honest picture by which to measure this.

He did remember her face after her father’s gun had gone off, though, for she had reached out for him, her hands around his neck, trying to contain the damage, his blood between her fingers and her blue eyes sharp with pain.

They had both fallen then, out of the door on to the road, her body wound about his own, like a blanket or a cushion. He had felt the softness of her and the honesty, her hair falling around them in shelter until she had been torn away.

‘God.’ He spoke that out loud. ‘God, help me,’ he added as if in that second and under the darkness of a spring London night he had understood exactly what he should have always known.

Florentia Hale-Burton had tried to help him even after everything he had done to her. After all the hurt and the dogs and the chill and the fear. She had reached out and tried to stem the damage of the shot, placing her own body between him and his assailants and the promise of another assault.

The realisation was staggering.

Roy Warrenden had said she was timid and seldom left Kent so how could he meet her? To thank her. To make certain that she was...recovered?

His life seemed to be going into a vortex swirling around truth. The artist. Roy’s wariness. His wife’s fear. The sister banished to Kent after he had ruined her by his own stupidity.

But first he had to deal with Perkins from the inn at St Katharine Dock, for the ghost of his dead father demanded at least some attention.

Spitting out the pooling blood in his mouth, he stood, waiting for a moment as the dizziness lessened. He was on the right track at least if he was being threatened.

It was a start.