Читать книгу The Perfect Mistress - Victoria Alexander - Страница 10

“You want me to do what?” Veronica stared at him in that way she had, as if the level of his intelligence was far too low to justify his existence.

“I thought about it all the way here and it’s a brilliant idea.” Harrison paced the width of Veronica’s parlor, his mind occupied with the details of what he now thought of as The Plan.

“It doesn’t sound especially brilliant to me.”

“That’s because you don’t see it the way I do.”

“As much as I am eternally grateful for that, let me see if I understand any of this.” She paused to pull her thoughts together. “You want me to have a soiree—”

“Nothing elaborate. Simply a dinner.”

“Simply a dinner?” She sighed. “Very well then. A dinner so that you may use your powers of persuasion and your considerable charm on Julia to convince her to sell you her great-grandmother’s memoirs so that you may destroy them.”

“Exactly.” He grinned.

“The obvious flaws in this plan are too many to mention.” She shook her head. “Why a dinner? Why not a small gathering of some sort?”

“A dinner allows me to be seated next to her. Besides, I have impeccable manners.”

“Yes, that will sway her.” She scoffed. “I know when I am interested in a gentleman, the correct usage of the proper fork is always a considering factor.”

He ignored the note of sarcasm. “If I am next to her at the table she cannot escape and will be forced to speak to me. I am prepared to raise my offer, by the way. I am considering some sort of trust or annuity that will pay her annually but right now she will not give any offer from me due consideration.”

“Not surprising as you acted like an ill-mannered boor.”

“I did not … well …” He paused. “Ill-mannered boor” did seem to describe his behavior with a disquieting accuracy. “I insulted her lamp.”

“Goodness, Harrison, don’t you know anything about women?”

“I know a great deal about women,” he said in a lofty manner.

“Then you would know insulting a woman’s style of décor is not unlike telling her her waist is a bit thick or saying yes when she has asked if her bustle makes her bottom look large.”

“I didn’t see her bottom,” he muttered although admittedly, the rest of her figure was exceptional. She was shorter than he by nearly a head with a form nicely curved and lushly rounded in all the appropriate places. He mentally shook his head to clear the intriguing image.

She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “As for this dinner, how many guests would you like?”

“I don’t know, thirty perhaps.”

“You want me to have a dinner for thirty people?” Disbelief sounded in her voice.

He glanced at her. “Too many?”

She sighed. “I suggest we make up the guest list before deciding on a number. As I understand your somewhat garbled initial explanation, you wish me to invite—”

“I don’t care who you invite for the most part but I do wish to have some of the literary set present.”

“Why?”

“So that the conversation may be casually directed toward the uncertainty of publishing.” By God, this was brilliant.

“I see,” she said slowly. “You wish Julia to understand Lady Middlebury’s memoirs might not ultimately prove as lucrative as your offer.”

“Precisely. If you could invite a few authors perhaps.”

She raised a brow. “Would you like some poets as well? Perhaps an artist or two? Maybe a violinist?”

“Don’t be absurd. Why would we need artists or violinists?” He paused in midstep and glared at her. “You are not taking this at all seriously.”

“It’s not like hiring servants, you know. I can’t simply send a note to an employment service requesting an upstairs author and a scullery poet. For goodness’ sakes, Harrison, where do you propose I find such people?”

“I assumed you knew some. You are a well-known hostess after all.”

“Well yes, there is that,” she said grudgingly, somewhat mollified. “I suppose I have met, on occasion, an author or two, at someone else’s affair …” She paused.

“You’ve thought of something.”

“Perhaps.” She sighed. “Lady Tennwright has a literary salon every other month or so. She knows everyone who has ever so much as picked up a pen. She insists on inviting me and usually I manage to avoid attending. I find her extremely pretentious. If I make any overtures to her whatsoever she will assume we are the best of friends. Still, I suppose I could ask her if she could—”

“Provide you with names? Excellent.” He beamed at her.

She stared. “Whatever is wrong with you?”

“Nothing at all.” He drew his brows together. “What do you mean?”

“You’re pacing, you’re smiling, and God help us all, you’re positively enthusiastic.”

Shock coursed through him. “I am, aren’t I?”

“You are indeed.” She shook her head. “It’s most disconcerting. You arrive unannounced, which I cannot recall you ever doing even when Charles was alive, ranting about my giving a party so that you can charm Lady Win-terset.”

“I want those memoirs,” he said firmly.

“Then you should have been charming when you met with her today.”

“Yes, I should have,” he said sharply. “But I wasn’t and I must go on from here.”

“At least sit down. All that pacing is driving me mad.”

He took the chair nearest hers then leaned toward her. “I realize this is a large favor to ask of you, especially as I am someone you do not particularly like.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Goodness, Harrison, I don’t dislike you. I believe, as Charles did, that you have a great deal of potential, if you would only get that very large stick out of your—”

“Veronica,” he said sharply.

She huffed and glared at him. “Honestly, Harry, I have always wanted a brother and have never had one save for you. As such I do wish we could get on better.”

He stared at her for a moment. “And I have never had a sister. In spite of your marriage to Charles I have been reluctant to think of you in that respect. For that you have my apologies and my assurance that from this point forward I will indeed regard you as my sister.” He meant every word, even as he realized a sister would certainly lend greater assistance than a mere sister-in-law. A sister would work with him. A sister would be an ally. He cast her a genuine smile. “But from what I have heard from friends who do have female siblings, our squabbling is not unusual.”

“Well then, we shall carry on, I suppose.” She blew a resigned breath. “When do you want this dinner?”

“As soon as possible.”

“A week from now would be awkward but perhaps manageable.”

“Tomorrow would be excellent.”

“Tomorrow would be impossible. You might as well ask me to dance naked on an elephant in Piccadilly Circus while playing the flute! Except that I cannot play the flute. That would almost be easier.”

He grinned. “But you, of all the people I know, would have no difficulty dancing naked.”

She gasped. “You’re teasing me! Good God! Are you ill? Dying?”

He chuckled. “I have never felt better.”

She stared at him for a moment then her eyes widened and she sucked in a sharp breath. “God help us all, you like her!”

“Who,” he said innocently although he knew full well who she meant.

“Julia!”

“Nonsense. I find her even more annoying than I find you.” He scoffed. “Granted, she is quite beautiful if one likes all that angelic hair and flashing emerald eyes.”

Veronica’s brow rose. “Angelic hair? Emerald eyes?”

“It’s a description, Veronica.” He shrugged. “Nothing more than that.” He paused. “She looked vulnerable and weary though, as if she was bearing a great burden.”

“She is.”

“As a gentleman I naturally feel an urge to protect those weaker than myself.”

“Make no mistake, she is not weak.”

“No, I did notice that.” He forced a casual note to his voice. “What kinds of traits does she like in a gentleman? I assume women talk about such things.”

Veronica’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “If you don’t like her, why do you want to know?”

“If I am to be as charming as possible, knowing the kind of man she likes would be most beneficial.”

“If you are to be as charming as possible, you shall have to change your manner. You shall have to be far less stuffy and much more pleasant and friendly. You should also try not to be quite so dignified every minute.”

He started to respond then realized she was probably right. “I can do that.”

“We shall see.” Veronica studied him closely. “She likes men who have a sense of humor.”

“I have a sense of humor.”

Veronica scoffed. “Not that I’ve noticed.”

“What else?”

“She prefers men who appreciate her mind as well as her appearance.”

“Yes, she would, wouldn’t she?” He thought for a moment. “Is she dreadfully intelligent?”

Amusement twinkled in Veronica’s eyes but her tone was somber. “Dreadfully.”

“That can’t be helped, I suppose.” He nodded. “Anything else?”

“She likes what all women like. Consideration, thoughtfulness, a man who will worship the very ground she walks on. Who could not bear to live if she was not in his life. A man who would sacrifice what he wants most for her.”

He stared. “You sound like you’re reading from a romantic novel.”

“You asked what women want and there you have it.” She shrugged. “For most women, such a man is only found between the pages of a novel. They are forced to settle for far less. For some of us however …” She drew a deep breath. “I found all that with Charles. And should I ever find it again, I shall snatch the poor man up before he can take so much as a single breath.” She cast him a wry smile. “Although I have no desire to marry again.”

“Nonsense, all women wish to be married,” he said staunchly. “You are still young and quite lovely. If it were not for—” He caught himself.

“For my independent, stubborn nature?” She laughed. “Yes, well, that is a hindrance. But one never knows what might transpire in life.”

“I suppose not.” He chuckled.

She stared at him then shook her head as if to clear it. “Harrison, I swear on my mother’s grave I have seen you smile more today than I have in the entire seven years I have known you.”

“My apologies for that, Veronica. I shall endeavor to be more …” He searched for the right word. “Amusing in the future.”

“That will be interesting.” She considered him for a moment. “Julia is not what you are looking for in a wife.”

“Most certainly not. You have already said we would not suit.”

“It bears repeating.” She paused. “Of course, marriage would be one way to get legitimate possession of the memoirs.”

“But as much as I am willing to pay.” Harrison shook his head. “That price is entirely too high.”

They discussed the details of Veronica’s dinner for a few minutes more before Harrison took his leave, wondering why he hadn’t reached this point with her long ago. Certainly he found her annoying and she was entirely too intelligent for her own good. But she was family and he liked this whole idea of having a sister. After all, wasn’t it already his duty to watch over her? Didn’t he owe that to his brother? And wasn’t it a responsibility he had shirked? Well, no more. For a man who prided himself on living up to his responsibilities, it was something of a shock to realize he hadn’t when it came to his brother’s widow.

He left Veronica’s with an newfound spring in his step and an odd sense of exuberance. He could not remember the last time he had felt anything remotely resembling exuberance but surely it was many years ago. Perhaps it could be attributed to facing a challenge, a goal that could not be easily achieved. Much in life had not been the least bit difficult for him.

And blast it all, when had he become so grim and overbearing? Certainly, he had taken over all of the family responsibilities from his father, which carried with them a sobriety his father had never displayed. But no sense of humor, indeed. Why, he found any number of things amusing, and if he did not show that amusement it was only because it would be frivolous to do so. He was certainly not a frivolous man and had no intention of becoming one. Still, he could be a little less of an ill-mannered boor.

His carriage rolled toward home and the oddest thought popped into his head and refused to go away. It would be a lucky man who got to worship the ground beneath Julia Winterset’s feet.

* * *

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you?”

The now-familiar voice drifted through Julia’s head and she groaned. Blast it all, another dream. It began as it always did, with Hermione’s voice and Julia dreaming she opened her eyes.

“I have had quite enough of this nonsense,” Hermione said. “Do sit up and greet me properly.”

Why not? It was only a dream. Julia struggled to sit up, and sighed. “Good evening, Hermione.” She yawned. “Or is it morning?”

“Much better.” As usual, Hermione sat at the foot of her bed. “Now then, this will come as something of a shock as I suspect as you are very nearly as stubborn as I. I fear it runs in our blood.”

“Oh, fortunate me.”

“Sarcasm, my dear child, is not becoming in a lady.”

“My apologies,” Julia muttered, heat rising in her face. As always, she marveled at the vividness of these dreams.

“Brace yourself, my dear.” Hermione leaned forward and met her gaze directly. “I am not a dream.”

Julia snorted. “Don’t be absurd. I have been dreaming of you since I began reading your memoirs.” She shook her head. “I cannot believe I am arguing with a dream.”

“You’re not arguing with a dream. You’re arguing with—dear me, how shall I put this?” Hermione thought for a minute. “There’s really no good way to say it. You’re arguing with a ghost.”

“A ghost.” She scoffed. “Utter nonsense.”

Hermione raised a brow. “I assure you, I am quite real. Although real is a relative term I suppose, but I am as real as a ghost can be.”

Julia studied her closely. “If you’re a ghost, why can’t I see through you?”

“You could if I wished you to but I don’t. I find that transparent nonsense to be quite unnerving and that’s from my point of view. I can’t imagine how it would be from yours. Why, I might be extremely frightening and I really don’t wish to frighten anyone.” She aimed a stern look at Julia. “But I am tired of being ignored.”

“I haven’t ignored you.” Julia narrowed her eyes. “If you’re a ghost, why do you look like that?”

Hermione glanced down. “I think I look very nice. I always did love this dress.”

It was indeed an exquisite deep blue silk, with dropped shoulders and puffed sleeves, trimmed in lace with small bunches of violets attached here and there.

“You look like you’re going to a ball.”

“One never knows,” Hermione murmured.

“You died when you were in your sixty-seventh year. You don’t look much older than I am.”

“This is how I appeared when I was eight-and-thirty.” She smoothed her hand over her throat. “My neck had not yet begun to sag, there were only the tiniest wrinkles at the corners of my eyes from laughter. I rather liked them. And my breasts …” She smiled smugly. “My breasts were magnificent, as you can clearly see.”

Julia smiled in spite of herself. “They do look very nice.”

“While I was somewhat of a remarkable beauty in my youth—”

“And humble,” Julia said under her breath.

“—at eight-and-thirty, I was clever and I was confident and I was strong. All of which creates the kind of beauty that lingers in a man’s eyes and in his dreams. Eight-and-thirty was a very good year for me.” She sighed with the memory. “It is one of the … oh, benefits, I should say, of, well, death that one is allowed to appear as one wishes depending on the occasion, of course.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”

“Then you have never heard the story about a crowned head of one of those tiny European countries, a scullery maid dressed as a poodle, and a pony. Now that, my dear, was ridiculous.”

Julia stared. She certainly did have an excellent imagination.

“But I digress.” Hermione gestured in a nonchalant manner. “Where was I? Oh yes.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am not a dream, I am not something you invented. I am not a result of indigestion or imagination. I am a ghost like Scrooge’s Marley or Hamlet’s father.”

“Ah-hah.” Julia aimed a triumphant finger at the alleged specter. “They were both fictional, concocted from man’s imagination as surely as mine has conjured you.”

Hermione’s brows drew together in a forbidding frown. “Lord Mountdale was right, I see.”

Julia narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Why, he found you most annoying.” Hermione’s expression brightened. “And how would I know that if I were not a ghost? If I have not been watching over you?”

“You would know that because I know that.” She shrugged. “It was obvious.” Indeed, she’d never met anyone she was as certain disliked her as much as Lord Mountdale did.

“Even to the dead?”

“Apparently.”

“He is dashing, though.”

Julia shrugged. “If you like that sort.”

“What woman in her right mind doesn’t like that sort? The sort that is tall and handsome with piercing blue eyes that seem to caress you with every look—”

“They did not!” Although why would her dream say they had if they hadn’t?

“And his hands. Did you notice his hands? You can tell a lot about a man by the size of his hands. And Lord Mountdale’s hands—”

“That’s quite enough!” Odd, Julia couldn’t remember noticing his hands but obviously she had. “This is absurd.”

“Not as absurd as when Lady Ridgemont had her portrait painted dressed as a mermaid.” Hermione shook her head. “Sea green was not the woman’s color and fish scales are never attractive.”

Julia glared. “You’re digressing again.”

“I am, aren’t I? I do hate it when I do that.” Hermione thought for a moment. “I was about to mention that in addition to his handsome face and his ha—”

“Stop that!”

Hermione continued without pause. “He is extremely wealthy and would make someone an excellent husband.”

“Would he indeed?” Was Julia really thinking such a thing? Surely she must be if the idea would surface in her dreams. Still, it was a revelation she was not willing to accept. Why, she didn’t like the man and he didn’t like her. Nor did he like her lamp.

“The gentleman has everything you need. Marriage to him would solve all your problems. And you could scarcely do better.”

“Marriage to Lord Mountdale is out of the question. Furthermore he has nothing to do with this discussion.” Julia directed a firm look toward Hermione. “We were discussing your … your nature.”

“I assure you, I am indeed a ghost.”

“Prove it, then.” Julia folded her arms over her chest and nodded. “Go on. Prove you’re a ghost and not a dream.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

“I have no idea.” Julia shrugged. “Something ghostly, I suppose.”

“I’m not going to vanish and reappear, change my appearance, float near the ceiling, that sort of thing. I don’t do parlor tricks.” She sniffed. “Besides, anything of a ghostly nature you will simply attribute to the idea that you are dreaming.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh. “I should have appeared to you during the day when there wasn’t a doubt in your mind as to your wakefulness. Perhaps tomorrow—”

“No,” Julia said without thinking.

“No?” Hermione raised a brow. “Then you do believe me.”

Julia shook her head. “No, I don’t. I simply don’t want the idea that you may pop up at any minute haunting my thoughts all day.”

“Haunting your thoughts?” Hermione grinned. “What a telling phrase.”

Julia sighed. “I am now going to bury my head in my pillow and force everything from my mind, thus ending this dream.”

“You can bury your head in the desert sands for all the difference it makes, I shall not go away,” Hermione said in a tone that was as pleasant as it was determined. “I have no idea how I shall prove my nature but prove it I shall. We shan’t accomplish anything until I do,” she added under her breath.

“What do you wish to accomplish?” Julia said slowly.

“Why, I am here to help, of course.”

“At the moment you can help by allowing me to get some much-needed rest.”

“If I’m a dream then you are asleep and already getting rest.”

“I have scarcely had a decent night’s sleep since I began reading your memoirs.”

Hermione cast her a satisfied grin. “They are stimulating, aren’t they?”

“They are scandalous, disgraceful, and completely outrageous.”

“They should sell very well then.”

Julia smiled wryly. “Yes, they should.” She drew a deep breath. “And you have my thanks for writing them.”

“It was entirely my pleasure.” Hermione smirked. “In so many ways.”

Julia groaned. “Good Lord.”

“I know. You have not reached page one forty-seven yet. What if I tell you what’s on that page? It’s not something you already know. That should prove I know things you don’t.”

“My dear Hermione, I can very nearly guess the type of incident that will be recounted on page one forty-seven.”

“Yes, well perhaps.” She thought for a moment, then smiled slowly in an entirely too wicked manner. “What if I told you a secret you couldn’t possibly know and would never suspect?”

Julia narrowed her eyes. “What kind of secret?”

“About your Lord Mountdale.”

“He’s not my Lord Mountdale.”

“It’s the reason why he, and his mother before him, are so concerned with scandal.”

“How very interesting. Still …” Julia shook her head. “That sounds like gossip to me.”

“And?”

“And I try not to indulge in gossip.”

“Gossip, my dear, serves a necessary purpose. Without gossip, how does one ever learn anything of interest?” Hermione rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Besides, you won’t be indulging in gossip, I will. You’ll just be listening. Although the point is moot as this isn’t gossip. This is something I know for a fact.”

Without warning, Hermione vanished from the foot of the bed to reappear at once sitting beside Julia, close enough to speak low into her ear. Dream or not, it was most unnerving. Julia realized she felt Hermione’s presence although she had no sense of her substance. Even in a dream it was enough to make a shiver run up her spine and so disconcerting that it took a moment for Hermione’s words to sink into her mind.

“Good Lord!” She stared. “I can’t believe I could ever come up with such a far-fetched idea.”

“You didn’t.” Hermione huffed. “It’s the truth and something you would have no way of knowing.”

“That is true, I suppose.” Julia thought for a moment. “However, I have no way of finding out if it’s true, I certainly can’t ask him.”

“Oh, I don’t think he knows.”

“Then how am I to know if this is indeed a fact and not something my sleeping mind has concocted?”

“You are a clever woman, my dear. I’m sure you will think of a way.” Hermione slipped off the bed. “And then you will have to accept that I am precisely what I say I am.”

Julia sighed. “I suppose I will. Although …” She shook her head. “The dreams of you were bad enough. The very idea that my great-grandmother’s ghost would be here, in the flesh—”

“Not exactly,” Hermione murmured.

“—speaking with me as if she were alive, revealing secrets—it’s hard to believe.”

“No, dear. What is hard to believe is the time Lord Albemarle and Lady Ed—”

“Enough!” Julia huffed. “I do not want to hear another scandalous story about people who are long dead and best forgotten.”

“I’ll tell them you said so,” Hermione said in a wry tone.

Julia groaned.

“Try to remember, child, that while the dead do not mind being thought of as dead, we do hate to think we’ve been forgotten.”

“You will never be forgotten.”

“You are a dear girl and most thoughtful.” Hermione cast her a brilliant smile. “Now, go back to sleep or else you shall have nasty bags under your eyes in the morning and will not look anywhere near your best. You should always endeavor to look your best, you know. One never knows who one might run into unexpectedly.”

“I am asleep,” Julia said firmly.

“I shall return when you are prepared to accept the reality of my existence.”

“I can scarcely wait.” Julia sighed and lay back down, pulling her covers up around her. She refused to look to see if Hermione was still standing by the bed. Not that it mattered. Her great-grandmother was not a ghost but simply part of a dream. As for this secret she had revealed about Lord Mountdale, it couldn’t possibly be true and was nothing more than the deepest recesses of Julia’s mind dwelling on what might take his lordship down a peg.

Still, as she drifted deeper into sleep, the thought lingered that if the secret were true then Hermione was indeed a ghost and Julia’s problems might well be just beginning.

… and needless to say he swore me to secrecy.

It is always beneficial to know those secrets a gentleman does not want revealed. Not that I would ever encourage use of secrets in an untoward manner. Blackmail and the like are never acceptable unless one has no other recourse and there is something of great importance at stake. But the very fact that a gentleman, or anyone, has trusted you with that which they hold most precious is a gift that should not be valued lightly.

Now, however, he is long in his grave and I do not consider his secret to be as devastating as it is amusing. Dear Reader, you can well imagine my surprise when he appeared in what can only be called …

from The Perfect Mistress,

the Memoirs of Lady Hermione Middlebury