Читать книгу The Perfect Mistress - Victoria Alexander - Страница 9

It scarcely mattered how long she stared or how many times she looked away and then looked back, the figures written in her fine hand on the pages of her account book did not change. The numbers indicating the small amount of money remaining did not grow larger, the sums of bills owed to merchants refused to shrink. Even the frugality which ruled her life these days made little difference. She leaned back in her chair behind the desk in the library and sighed. If only William had not died …

How many times had she thought that in the last three years? A hundred? A thousand? More? Not that it mattered. She could no more turn back the hands of the clock or the pages of the calendar and prevent him from falling under the wheels of a careening carriage than she could magically add a hundred or so pounds to her bank account. Utter nonsense to dwell on what might have been. From now on, if only was a game she would no longer play. She drew a deep breath, straightened, and continued her perusal of the accounts, with an eye toward determining if she could indeed accept Mr. Cadwallender’s offer.

There was nothing left to trim when it came to the expenses of the London house. She had already cut her staff back to Daniels, the housekeeper, the cook, and one maid. Not that the staff had been much larger when William was alive. She would not be in the predicament she was now in if William had had more of a head for finances. He had always been more concerned with causes that needed a champion, precisely why he had been awarded a knighthood, and with clients who needed his help, rather than those who could afford to pay him in a timely manner. His wealthy family had given them an allowance even though they were not pleased by his choice of profession or wife. Still, he was the brother of the current Baron Holridge, the youngest of four sons and a Winterset. As such, he could not be allowed to wallow in gentile poverty. Pity they felt no such responsibility toward his widow.

Within days after William’s demise, the family’s solicitor had called on her to inform her the allowance would cease. If she and William had had children, it would be a different story the solicitor had said, with a look that indicated their lack of offspring was entirely her fault. After all, William had three brothers and a sister, and as Julia was an only child, their childless state was obviously her fault. She had been both stunned and furious but had, as a proper lady did, held her tongue rather than tell the overbearing, pompous Winterset spokesman that she would rather beg on the streets than continue to take so much as a penny from William’s family. Still, at that moment, she had some savings and never imagined begging on the streets might well be her fate.

She turned the page of the account book and studied the expenses of her grandmother’s support in the country. Here too there was nothing to be trimmed. Her grandmother and Mrs. Philpot—as much a companion as house-keeper really—lived simply in a small cottage. Mrs. Phil-pot’s wages were scarcely more than the roof over her head and the food she ate. Even so, on her next visit, Julia would have to tell them the day was fast approaching when they would have no choice but to join her in London and make certain they understood.

She studied the figures carefully. If Mr. Cadwallender would increase his offer she might well be able to survive on that for the next few years, longer if she let go the cottage and moved her grandmother to London. She refused to consider what might happen after that. But if Mr. Cad-wallender was right in his assessment and the book did well, there would be royalties and she might be financially sound well into the future. Dear Lord, she hoped so. Other than that absurd notion of finding a new husband with money, she had no other options.

At least she was clear-headed this morning and had slept soundly through the night, undisturbed by the dreams that had plagued her ever since she had begun reading Hermione’s memoirs. She did indeed think of them as Hermione’s rather than her great-grandmother’s. It was decidedly difficult to read accounts of romps with royalty, dalliances with noblemen, and amorous adventures with gentlemen whose names she recognized and think of the woman involved as Great-Grandmama. The dreams themselves had been strange. One would have thought she might have dreamt of the incidents she read about but instead, Hermione had come to sit at the foot of her bed and chat about her life. Thus far, Julia had been reluctant to respond and had simply stared and listened, all the while reminding herself that she was asleep.

Hermione had accepted her silence and had chatted about whatever section of the book Julia had most recently read, clarifying a vague point here, elaborating on an escapade there. She was quite explicit and her descriptions embarrassingly erotic, or would be embarrassing if they were not the product of a too-active imagination Julia never knew she had, fueled by Hermione’s memoirs. Usually, weariness would overcome her, the dream would fade, and she would slip back into a sound sleep. Oddly enough, she could remember these dreams upon waking with a clarity she’d never experienced with her dreams before. As such they were difficult to put from her mind even in the light of day. Worse, they at once reminded her of the intimacies with William she admittedly missed as well as those completely improper they’d never shared. That was a thought she immediately dashed from her mind although it did seem to resurface with every new dream. It was most annoying even as it was altogether too arous—

A knock sounded at the door and heat washed up her face. Nonsense. No one could possibly know what she was thinking simply by looking at her.

“Yes?”

The door opened and Daniels stepped into the room, carrying a small silver salver that bore a single calling card. “A gentleman is here wishing to speak with you, my lady.”

He crossed the room and presented the tray with a slight flourish. Even in these times of limited finances, Daniels refused to let her circumstances affect his demeanor. She bit back a smile. Poor dear. While he might well have felt suited to a much loftier household, his sense of loyalty was stronger than his ambition. He would remain with her until the time came that she forced him to go.

She picked up the card and studied it. It was of the finest quality, elegant in its very simplicity bearing only a small embossed coat of arms and a title.

“How very interesting,” she murmured.

“I can tell him you are engaged and send him on his way if you wish, my lady,” Daniels said. The butler was as protective as he was loyal. She sighed to herself. He deserved better.

She smiled. “Tempting, Daniels, but not necessary.”

“Shall I show him into the parlor then?”

“Yes. No.” She glanced around the library. William had often worked in this room late into the night. While it was even smaller than the parlor, there was an air of businesslike competence here she suspected she would need. “I shall meet with him here.”

“Very well, my lady.” Daniels nodded and left the room.

Julia rose to her feet. Much better to stand than to allow his lordship to look down on her. She drew a deep breath.

Daniels opened the door and stepped aside to allow the earl to enter. He strode into the room with an almost visible air of purpose and determination. He was taller than she’d expected and far more attractive as well with brown hair of a shade so deep it was nearly black and eyes almost as dark. His shoulders were impressively broad, his jaw square and set with resolve. His nose was narrow, noble, and his lips a shade fuller than one would have thought attractive on a man. Veronica had spoken of him, of course, but had only mentioned his dashing presence in passing. She tended to speak more of his unyielding nature and annoying sense of propriety. His clothes were perfectly appointed, his style elegant and quite perfect in an understated sort of way that spoke of wealth and breeding. Julia could see by the way he entered the room and approached her that this was a man used to being obeyed, to getting exactly what he wanted. Without thinking she raised her chin slightly and met his gaze. Her stomach fluttered. This was obviously not a social call. He stepped closer and she could see his eyes were blue, the deep unrelenting shade of a winter night.

She adopted a cordial smile and nodded, grateful they were separated by the desk. This seemed a man it would be wise to keep as far away as possible. “What a pleasant surprise, my lord. Especially as we have never met.”

A touch of annoyance glinted in his eyes then vanished. He offered a polite smile. “To my everlasting regret, Lady Winterset.”

She gestured at the only other chair in the room, a worn wingback positioned off to one side of the desk, then took her seat. It was only after she sat down that she realized the lamp on the corner of her desk obscured his view and he had to lean to see around it. She’d never noticed before; she couldn’t recall the last time she’d sat behind the desk with someone in the chair. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

“Thank you but no, I shall not be here long.” He shifted toward one side of his chair and peered around the lamp. “This is not a social call.”

“I thought not.” She leaned slightly to see around the lamp. It was an ornate thing with an amber glass shade. Its bronze base was the figure of a woman with wings folded against her back, a fairy she’d always thought as a child but as an adult thought it was perhaps more a fanciful depiction of some other sort of mythical creature. Her mother had given it to her when she and William had set up housekeeping because Julia had always loved it whereas her mother had not. She really should move it but it was there in the first place because of its oddly comforting presence. Besides, she suspected he was more disconcerted than she. It was an advantage she preferred not to lose. “Please, go on.”

“I have been informed by Lady Smithson that you are in possession of the scandalous memoirs of Lady Middle-bury.”

She nodded and settled back in her chair, obscuring his view of her. “I am indeed, my lord.”

He shifted again to aim a disapproving look at her. “I must tell you, Lady Winterset, I have read the portion you gave to Lady Smithson and I am most disturbed by it.”

“Imagine my surprise,” she said under her breath. She should have known Veronica would show him the pages Julia had given her. Not that it mattered.

“To read about the dalliances of my father with a woman who was …”

She raised a brow. “Who was what, my lord?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Completely improper, thoroughly scandalous, and without any sort of moral standards whatsoever.”

It was all she could do to keep the anger that rushed through her from showing on her face. Anger was not the way to deal with this self-righteous snob. No, she needed to remain calm and collected. Besides, Hermione herself would freely admit to her improper, scandalous nature. However, as Julia discovered with each page she read, her great-grandmother did have certain moral standards. They simply did not conform to those of the rest of society.

She folded her hands on top of her desk and smiled slowly. “Then her memoirs should sell extremely well.”

His brow furrowed in a forbidding manner. “They will not sell at all if I have anything to say about it.”

She leaned slightly to one side, partially obscuring his view of her once again. “But you don’t, my lord.”

He huffed, stood up, towering over the desk, and a prickle of alarm stabbed her although surely she had nothing to fear. This man’s sense of proper behavior would never allow him to resort to violence against a woman. He grabbed the wing chair, moved it to a spot directly in front of the desk, set it down with a thud, then sat back down and glared at her.

She bit back a satisfied grin. “So you read what I gave Lady Smithson.”

He snorted. “I did indeed.”

“Did you not find it interesting?”

“I found it deplorable.”

“But did you not find the writing of it”—how had Mr. Cadwallender put it?—“engaging and enthusiastic?”

“I found it offensive and appalling.”

“The story itself then. Did you not find it intriguing?”

“Not in the least. I found it scandalous and disgraceful.”

“I see.” She leaned forward slightly and met his gaze. “The particulars then.” Even as she said the words, a blush washed up her face but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Did you not find them … exciting?”

“I found them disturbing. Extremely disturbing.” Shock sounded in his voice. “I do not find reading about the misdeeds of my father to be the least bit arousing.”

She raised a brow. “I did not say arousing, I said exciting.”

“I know what you said even as I know what you meant. This is my father we are speaking about!”

“Just as my great-grandmother is the subject of discussion.”

“But she is dead and he is very much alive.” He clenched his teeth.

“And is he as scandalized as you by the thought of publication of this book?”

He hesitated for no more than the space of a breath. “I have not felt it necessary to bring this to his attention out of concern for his well-being.”

“What a thoughtful son you are.” She smiled pleasantly.

“Indeed I am.” He leaned toward her. “Lady Winterset, let me be clear on this point. I find nothing enjoyable about reading of the … the amorous dalliances of my father and I have no desire to discuss intimate details of his past with him.”

“I can well appreciate that, my lord.”

He stared at her in surprise. “Then you understand?”

“Most certainly.” She raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “If Lady Middlebury was alive, I can’t imagine discussing her adventures with her. Why, I would be dreadfully embarrassed.”

“Exactly.” The tense line of his shoulders relaxed a bit. “Then surely you can see why I do not wish the public to read of this … relationship with your great-grandmother.”

“I can see it quite clearly.”

“Excellent. I did not expect …” He cast her a genuine smile and it struck her as both very nice and little used. “I have a request then to make of you.”

“Yes?”

“Lady Smithson has made me aware of your financial difficulties so I understand your need to sell the memoirs for publication. However, I would be most appreciative if you would remove all reference to my father from the book.” In spite of his polite tone, it was clearly a demand more than a request.

“No doubt you would be. However …” She shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid I can’t possibly do that. As you said, the state of my finances is such that I have no choice but to sell this manuscript. Eliminating the section about your father would diminish the overall value of the work.”

He stared in disbelief. This was a man obviously unused to being refused. “But my father is alive whereas I suspect the majority of the other companions Lady Mid-dlebury lists are not.”

She nodded. “That does seem to be true, at least given what I have read thus far.”

“Scandal has never touched my family, Lady Winter-set.” A warning sounded in his voice. “And I refuse to allow it to do so now. I realize your family—”

Her spine stiffened. “Contrary to your implication, my family has, as well, been scandal free in recent generations.”

“Yes, of course. My apologies.” He drew a deep breath and leaned forward. “May I be completely candid with you, Lady Winterset?”

“Please.”

He paused, as if trying to decide just how candid he wished to be, then drew a deep breath. “My father has lived a somewhat, shall we say colorful, private life and has not always been as discreet as one would hope. My family has, however, managed to keep his indiscretions from becoming public through the years due to my efforts and those of my mother before me. It has not always been an easy task.”

“I can imagine.”

He considered her for a long moment. “If you will not remove references to him from this book, let me propose something else.” He pulled an envelope from an unseen pocket and laid it on the desk. “I am prepared to purchase the memoirs myself. You will find the sum I have in mind to be most generous.”

She picked up the envelope, pulled out a paper that was as fine in quality as his calling card although she expected no less, unfolded it, and read the amount he had written.

“Most generous indeed,” she said thoughtfully. Lord Mountdale’s offer was nearly twice that of Mr. Cadwallender’s, enough to support her household and her grandmother for several years. “Still, my lord, if the manuscript is published, there will be royalties well into the future. An ongoing income if you will.”

His brows pulled together. “Surely you do not expect me to provide continuing funding indefinitely?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t expect anything of you at all. But I must consider the future.”

He gestured at the page still in her hand. “That is a considerable, even exorbitant, amount of money.”

She nodded. “It is substantial.”

“Well?” Impatience sounded in his voice.

“Let me ask you this.” She met his gaze directly. “If I sell you the memoirs, what do you intend to do with them?”

Confusion crossed his face. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, I shall destroy them, of course.”

“Of course you will.” She refolded the paper, “Then I fear I must decline. My grand-grandmother entrusted the record of her life to my mother and now it is my responsibility. I cannot allow her manuscript to be destroyed.”

He stared in disbelief. “But it is a great deal of money. And you need money.”

“Indeed it is and indeed I do but I must think of tomorrow as well as today.” She shook her head. “If the book sells as well as I have been told it has the potential to do, it shall provide income for years.”

“Be reasonable, Lady Winterset,” he said in a stern manner. “Do not let misplaced sentiment cloud your judgment.”

“This has nothing to do with sentiment,” she said sharply. “I am being extremely practical. What you’re offering, in spite of its generosity, is finite. It will not last forever.”

He continued as if she hadn’t said a word. “I do not know a great deal about the business of publishing but I do know the success or failure of a venture is always a gamble. What I am offering you is a certainty. As for the future, you are, well, a very beautiful woman. Surely you will remarry someday and no doubt soon. Then you will not have to worry about money.”

She gritted her teeth. “As much as I do appreciate what was no doubt a compliment buried somewhere in your words, I have no intention of marrying anyone for financial stability. And, as I have no prospects at the present time, my marrying again is as much a gamble as the success of The Perfect Mistress.”

He frowned. “The what?”

“The Perfect Mistress. That is the title Lady Middle-bury gave to her memoirs.”

“Oh, that is indeed”—he fairly spat the word—“per-fect.”

“Little in this world is perfect, my lord. My great-grandmother certainly was not. I am not. Even you are not perfect.” Julia rose to her feet. “As much as I do understand your concerns I cannot allow them to prevent me from doing what I think is best with what is essentially my legacy.”

He stood, his lips pressed into a hard line. “This is a poor decision on your part, Lady Winterset.”

She shrugged. “It is neither my first nor do I suspect my last.”

He cast a disgusted look at her lamp. “And that is the ugliest lamp I have ever seen.”

She rested her hands on her desk, leaned forward slightly, and lowered her voice. “Your cravat … is crooked.”

His hand shot to his neck to check the item in question.

She smiled sweetly and straightened. “My apologies, I was mistaken. It was the angle, no doubt.”

His jaw tightened. “No doubt.”

“Good day, my lord.”

“I warn you, Lady Winterset, I do not give up easily.”

“Lord Mountdale, you were candid with me. I should like to be honest with you as well.”

“I prefer honesty.”

She nodded. “Most people do.” She chose her words with care. “For much of my life, I have done exactly what was expected of me. My behavior has been eminently proper. I avoided even the suggestion of scandal and I did as I was told. I have reached a point in my life when necessity dictates that is no longer of importance.”

He stared at her with a hint of disdain. “It must run in the family then.”

She shook her head. “What?”

“A complete disregard for proper behavior, the courting of scandal and moral lassitude.” He glared. “You are exactly like your great-grandmother.”

It was all she could do to keep from vaulting over the desk to pummel him into insensibility. Not that she could truly have bested him or that she had any abilities in that regard whatsoever, indeed, she had never even slapped a man’s face. At this moment however, she suspected she could at the very least inflict noticeable damage on that too handsome, too smug face.

“And you, my lord, are a self-righteous, condescending, arrogant ass. As for my being like my great-grandmother.”—she forced a cordial smile—“I certainly hope so.” She pulled her gaze from his, sat down, and shuffled the papers on the desktop as if there was a great deal that needed her immediate attention and he was no longer of interest. “Good day, my lord. Daniels will see you out.”

She sensed him staring at her although she refused to look up. “This is not over, Lady Winterset. I do not give up this easily.”

“I never imagined you would,” she said coolly, still refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. “Good day.”

He hesitated for another moment then she heard him stalk to the door, open it, and snap it closed sharply behind him.

She released a relieved breath and sank back in her chair.

Dear Lord. She rubbed her hand over her forehead. What an irritating, sanctimonious beast the man was. She might well have given his offer serious consideration had he not been so … so … well, the man made her want to resort to violence. She was not, nor had she ever been, a violent person. Why, she scarcely ever raised her voice. But with the Earl of Mountdale she wanted nothing so much as to wrap her fingers around his neck and squeeze the very life out of him.

As for being exactly like Hermione, she did indeed hope she was. Oh, not when it came to her amorous escapades, but her great-grandmother had a strength and a spirit of independence Julia was coming to admire more and more. She had lived her life precisely as she pleased with no apologies and few regrets. One could do far worse than to emulate those qualities.

The earl’s offer was tempting and she hoped she had not been foolish to turn it down. Still, she had no doubt she would hear from him again. He was not a man to accept no for an answer.

She was rather proud of herself for not losing her temper. She could only pray that when next she met his lordship she again would have the strength to restrain from surrendering to physical violence.

Although, she blew a long breath, she had never before met a man whose face deserved to be slapped as much as his did. And never met a man to whom she wished to do just that.

Until now.

As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, he was wrong.

Harrison strode to his carriage, ordered his driver to return home in an even more curt tone than usual, climbed in, and tried to regain a semblance of calm. No, he was completely wrong about Lady Winterset. She was not at all as annoying as Veronica. Veronica was a sheer delight in comparison. Lady Winterset was by far the most annoying woman whose path it had ever been his misfortune to cross.

Not that she wasn’t lovely. Only a blind man would fail to notice Lady Winterset’s beauty. Her eyes were the shade of flawless emeralds and flashed with green fire when she was angered as she obviously had been more than once during their discussion. Her hair was fair, the color usually found on paintings of Renaissance angels, with an unruly curl. Even as he had spoken with her he watched several tendrils escape her admittedly proper coiffure to drift around her face, like the whisper of a halo. The thought had occurred to him, briefly and immediately discarded, when he had watched that pale gold strand caress the peach blush of her cheek, what a perfect match she might have made in those days when she was concerned with propriety and the avoidance of scandal. Not for him, of course. At least not now. She was entirely too intelligent and independent although she did have an admirable sense of familial loyalty, even if misplaced.

He blew a long breath. He had not handled that at all well. Veronica had told him that Lady Winterset was in dire financial straits and he had assumed that meant she would succumb to his generous offer. As lovely as she was, he had noticed a tension in the set of her shoulders as if they bore the weight of the world, a paleness that bespoke of a lack of sleep, and a few fine lines of worry creasing her brow. But he hadn’t taken into account what else Veronica had told him about Lady Winterset’s nature. No, he should have handled that better.

Now, he was obviously going to have to begin anew. She was clever but she was still only a woman and he was certainly smarter. And as stubborn as she may be, he was not about to give up. He would acquire those memoirs and prevent his family from becoming embroiled in scandal. His mother had taught him scandal was to be avoided at all costs. She had spent most of her life trying to keep his father’s indiscretions quiet. He had always thought that was part of what had hastened her death. Still, he could never bring himself to blame his father. Neither his father nor his mother had been happy in their marriage. When he was younger and had been enamored of foolish notions like love he had wondered if they had ever felt that particular emotion toward one another. And if they had, when had it vanished? Well, he was certainly not going to predicate his marriage on love. If it existed at all, it was far too fragile and fleeting to last a lifetime. Charles, of course, had felt differently and had on occasion talked to his younger brother about the joy love with Veronica had brought him.

As much as he regretted the very idea, he would now need his sister-in-law’s help. Veronica had scoffed when he had mentioned his powers of persuasion and charm and, admittedly, he had employed little persuasion and even less charm, but with very little effort he certainly could. And if Lady Winterset liked him, surely she would be more agreeable to selling him the manuscript. How difficult could it possibly be to get the woman to like him? He simply had to spend some time with her, socially perhaps.

And that he would put in Veronica’s capable hands. He’d pay a call on her at once. She couldn’t possibly refuse to help. She was a member of his family after all, no matter how tenuous the bond. Besides, it would be in her friend’s best interest as well as his, especially if he increased his offer. He smiled with satisfaction. One way or another, Lady Hermione’s memoirs would be his.

Even if he had to rely on the help of one annoying woman to best another.