“I assure you, I don't flatter,” he said seriously, his eyes holding hers. “No words would be too generous to describe you. You are beyond my power of flattery.”
The flush crept down her face and into her neck, beautifully. He found himself staring at her ivory skin where it met the collar of her gown. It was the same gown she'd had on the previous day – a white one with lace around the higher collar – but he only really noticed it now, or how well it suited her.
“Should we finish breakfast?” he asked, coming back suddenly to the present.
She chuckled, a rich, warm sound. “I suppose, Lord Bradford, that's a marvelous idea. We have work to do.”
He nodded, reaching for a second slice of toast. She was right. They had work to do.
The coach Whitstock called rolled up into the drive just before luncheon. Bradford stood beside Lady Mirabelle, feeling nervous.
Serene and tranquil, her street bonnet tied becomingly under her chin, she turned, surveying him peaceably. His fingers moved involuntarily at his side, and she reached over with a gloved hand, gently gripping them in hers. It was such a natural gesture now.
He squeezed back, reassured by the feeling, his heart melting with sudden tenderness.
“Here it is,” she said, facing the coach as it stopped. “Then we'll be on our way to Grennerly.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “So we shall.”
He tried not to look nervous, handed her up into the coach, and looked at the, calling up instructions.
“Grennerly Place, Marlton Square.”
“Very good, sir.”
Bradford hopped up beside her in the coach, slammed the door behind himself. They sped off.
“I hope this fellow makes good time,” he said, jerking his head at the coach. It was a silly thing to say, but he had to say something – all the tension was weighing on him. The silence didn't help.
She nodded, at ease. “He should do. It's not a busy time of day.”
“Yes. Everyone's already having luncheon.” Bradford felt his stomach twinge at the thought. He'd spent the morning in the gallery, in shirt-sleeves, trying to recall what little he remembered of sword-fighting. He wished now that Elton had been there – his brother had a better memory than he did, and more skill with the blocks and parries. If he'd been there, he might feel more well-prepared.
“Yes, they must be at lunch,” Mirabelle agreed, interrupting his thoughts. “The clock says it's half past twelve.”
“Yes,” he nodded.
They fell silent. Bradford had the sudden suspicion she may have been watching him practice his sword-craft. His cheeks flushed as the thought made him at once embarrassed and very proud. He didn't want to ask her: He would feel silly asking something like that, especially at a time like this.
“The streets are almost empty,” she murmured, leaning over to the window. Her face was unruffled, those big eyes tranquil as blue lakes in Switzerland. Bradford wished he could feel like that – every rattle of the coach set his nerves on edge. “I think we shan't have any trouble.”
“No,” he nodded, suddenly tense. “I suppose not.”
The driver was slowing, and they turned up another street, rattling their way past shops and coffee-houses. The streets were quiet, Bradford noticed with surprise – usually he himself would be ensconced somewhere for luncheon at this time. A man strolled past, an umbrella under his arm. A woman walked with a poodle, pausing by a fence. Otherwise, nobody walked along the pavement, or stopped to peruse the shop windows. It felt a little surreal. It could have been the end of the world.
You're just nervous. Stop it.
Bradford looked back at Mirabelle, where she sat, leaning back now, watching the street. Her blue eyes were watchful, but it was impossible to tell what she was feeling. Bradford had an impulse to take her hand, just because they were alone in the coach and he missed the feel of her fingers in his – but he let his own hand lie by his side. The last thing he wanted was to disturb her peace of mind. He had little enough – no use to ruin hers.
“Grennerly Park, milord,” the driver called.
His eyes went to her face. She nodded.
“That's us.”
She nodded. He opened the coach door and lowered himself down, surprised to find it was rather warm out. Lifted up his hand and let her take it to step, neatly, down from the coach.
He paid the driver, who shouted cheery salutations on rolling off. Then they were alone in the quiet street.
“I think it's this way,” Mirabelle said, indicating right. “I've not been here for years.”
“I'm sure you remember.” He followed her down the shadow-drenched street. She seemed, still, completely unruffled and some of that calm settled on his own soul, easing it. He was ready for action.
Chapter 22: A confrontation
MIRABELLE WALKED UP the steps to the gray stone townhouse, feeling oddly calm. By some peculiar alchemy, she had reached a place inside where nothing bothered her – as if the attack the other day had fractured her world and then rebuilt more clearly, so that she could see what mattered most.
And what Alfred Stilton, or Lord Prytchley think, is not one of those things – not anymore.
She reached for the door-knocker and gripped it, cool under her hand. Knocked twice, then waited as the sound of feet, slow and shuffling, came to the door.
“Hello?” A face she barely recognized as Prytchley's butler, five years older, appeared.
“I'm here to see Arnott, Lord Prytchley,” she said. “Tell him it's Lady Steele. He'll come.”
“Lady Steele?” the fellow's brows went up. He nodded. “Wait here, please.”
She waited. She could feel Bradford's presence beside her, strong and steady. It was reassuring. It would have been all too easy, smelling the must-and-spice of the old house, to believe it was the past. That Arthur was going to come out of the drawing-room and smile, sardonic, asking if she was impatient to go home.
I never wanted to go home early. He told people I did, and that I didn't like parties, just so I didn't meet anyone.
“Milady?”
“Yes?”
“Lord Prytchley's in the parlor. I'll show you through.”
“Thank you. I know the way.”
She stepped in, and the door closed with a click behind them, stranding her in the past.
With the floor still gray granite overlaid with a silk-rug, the walls flocked gold acanthus paper, the ceiling lost in dust-motes, this place was the past and Arthur could have been alive. Mirabelle smelled the dusty hallway with its undertone of linseed oil, and a wave of panic washed over her, as strong as a storm-surge.
He's here. Right here. He's in the drawing-room drinking brandy and he's going to come out any minute. He's going to smirk at me and try to kiss me. He'll be amorous and cruel,or just cruel, and I won't be able to block him out...
“Milady?” Bradford's voice came from a long way away. It was a good voice, strong and firm and kind. It reached into the past and held her hand.
“Yes?” she whispered, her voice cracked.
“Shall we go in?”
She swallowed hard. “Yes. Let's.”
The way to the parlor was short. Mirabelle found she still knew the place despite the intervening years. She'd closed the door on the past so firmly that she'd almost forgotten the place existed. But yet, some inner mind recalled it for her, taking the steps automatically.
“Who is it?” a quavery voice called out as her steps reached the door. “Hudson? Ah! No! You! A surprise, my dear Lady Steele.”
The gentle voice of Arnott, Lord Prytchley, reached her at the doorway. She heard a chair creak and, as her eyes adjusted to the greater gloom of the old parlor, saw her long-forgotten friend, walking towards her. His eyesight was clearly worsened, for he walked with the unsure step of the poorly-sighted, and his tall, spare frame carried less weight even than she recalled. But he was smiling.
“Lord Prytchely,” she said, shaking his hand a
s he reached out for her own. He embraced her, and she felt a shock of surprise, then hugged him back, feeling his arid, cold form against hers.
“It's been years,” he said in that whispering voice, stepping back to face her once more.
“It has,” she nodded, throat tight. “I am glad to see you.” She truly was. She sniffed hard, wishing she had a kerchief at easy reach, for she was crying.
“My dear Lady Steele!” he exclaimed. “Why! Me too. Ah. Who's this?” His eyes peered past her uncertainly, studying the door-way.
“This is Lord Bradford. Son of the Earl of Denham.”
“Ah! And a welcome to you, too, sir! By!” he said, shaking Bradford's hand quite vigorously. “This is a day! Visitors! I get so few. I do love visitors. You recall, the house was never empty. Ah! Hudson?”
“Yes, milord?”
“The tea-things, please. Bring up some of that pound cake. And the good tea, mind you – the stuff for guests. Where you get the other stuff I've no idea...Ah! Do sit down,” he added, beaming fondly at them both.
“Thank you,” Mirabelle whispered, taking a seat on the chaise-lounge carefully.
“Thank you, milord,” Bradford said, beside her.
Mirabelle glanced at Bradford. She was concerned, but, she noticed, he hadn't drawn a breath. He was lowering himself into the mildew-scented leather armchair as if he did such things every day. Lord Prytchely limped back to them, lowered himself into another leather seat, closer to the fire, and clasped his hands under his chin, resting elbows on knees, rapt.
“Milady,” he said, turning to face her. “What brings you here to London? Tell me everything,” he added, those rheumy, surprisingly-blue eyes dancing. It occurred to Mirabelle that he wanted to know where Bradford came in, and she almost grinned.
Curious old fellow, she thought fondly. He's every bit as sharp as ever.
“I came here with tasks to carry out,” Mirabelle explained, knowing that Bradford didn't know this part of the story either. “And, well, an old acquaintance brought some difficulties with him.”
“Ah,” the old man said, leaning forward in the chair. She could see interest light him up and she felt warm inside again. He hadn't changed a bit. “An acquaintance?”
“Yes. You remember Alfred Stilton?”
“Nasty fellow,” Lord Prytchley said, surprising her with the vehemence in his town. “Very nasty. Yes, I recall him. He is here?”
“Yes. At his home. He...threatened me.”
“What?”
Mirabelle half-stood, shocked at the force of Lord Prytchley's reaction. His face flushed, patchily, and he shouted in surprise. She felt the need to fetch Hudson, lest the fellow suffer a fit of the apoplexy. As it was, his face went mauve, and then paled. He leaned back, breathing slowly.
“Sorry, milady,” he said. “It's...the blackguard! How dare he? I always knew he was a vile sort. But this? He must be stopped.”
“That's what we decided too,” Mirabelle said softly. “Which is why we came to you. We'd like it if you came with us.”
“On my word, yes,” he said, loudly. “Milady, we'll take my coach.”
Mirabelle stood, feeling a little guilty. She had no idea Lord Prytchley still cared so for her. She hadn't expected such a violent reaction, such sudden willingness to assist. He had hauled himself to his feet and limped to the door, determined.
“Hudson?” he yelled.
A voice answered back, more quietly. “Yes, milord?”
“Fetch the coach. We're going to town.”
Mirabelle felt her heart soar at that. She felt the excitement and purpose flood the dark, damp-scented room, and bring life into it. She glanced round at Bradford, who had been quiet the whole time, letting her speak, supporting her with his silence. He took her hand. She gripped it, fervently.
They were going to put an end to this business for good.
Outside, the coachman had been roused and collected his team, and now they rumbled out from the yard around the corner. The coach was an old one, built in the cumbersome, heavy manner of coaches from an earlier decade. It was black, designs picked out in gold-leaf that had flaked on its sides, giving the thing a sort of faded grandeur that was truly poignant.
Beside her, Lord Prytchley waited, dressed in a black velvet day-coat and tricorne, both from a bygone era. Together, they held the same faded elegance as the coach. They fitted him well, lending a fragile strength to him that tore at her heart. He stood upright, white, veined hands gripping his cane firm.
“Whoa, Stenton,” he shouted at the coachman, impatiently. “No need to bring the blazing thing up the front steps! We're coming.”
Mirabelle glanced at Bradford, a little apart from the group. He gave her a reassuring smile in return. She nodded. Together, they followed Lord Prytchley, as he strode down the steps, surprisingly agile for someone as frail, giving the coachman a right telling-off as he went.
“Right, here we are. All in, ladies first!” he said, as he stopped at the door. He reached to her and helped her up with a flourish. “Now, in we get. To Guild street, if you please.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was, Mirabelle thought, as she leaned back and Bradford got in, easy to remember that Lord Prytchley had been a colonel when he was young. He took charge effortlessly, treating the two of them as if they were part of his battalion.
“Now,” he said, slamming the door behind him with surprising acuity. “Tell me everything.”
Mirabelle looked at Bradford, who shrugged. So she did.
When they reached their destination, Lord Prytchley was quiet. Mirabelle felt as if her heart had settled into the same watchful silence. Bradford looked as drawn and tense as she. Lord Prytchley got out first, and they followed. Together, they walked up to the door.
Chapter 23: Matters resolved
The door opened. Bradford felt his heart tense for Mirabelle. She stood on the doorstep, a tall, still figure in white. The breeze lifted her hair where it hung in loose curls down her back. She remained unmoving. She could have been carved from glass.
Maybe only I can see how close she is to breaking.
Bradford didn't understand what had happened to Mirabelle when she entered the house – he could only watch with distant, bewildered care. The beautiful, resolute and untouchable woman he knew had become brittle with fear. He knew no-one else would be able to see it, but he, who knew her so well, could see the tension in her neck, the way her hands were tight with fear as she fought to stand her ground.
She was facing demons here, he knew – he just had no idea what they were.
Bradford glanced behind her to where the old man stood. His back was straight and he fairly quivered with a sort of grand, icy rage. Bradford had no idea how he was related to Mirabelle, or the nature of the friendship, but he respected what he saw.
Whatever happens, let her be alright.
He glanced over at Lord Prytchley, hoping that Lady Steele's faith in him was justified.
The door opened. A thin, peevish face appeared.
“Dash it, where's Smithson when you need him? I...oh.” Stilton went pale and stepped back, blustering. “You. I thought...you...”
He glanced back at Bradford, who stood, unmoving, at her right side. Lord Prytchley was leaning on the balustrade, out of sight from the half-open door.
“We came to tell you we know what you're doing,” Mirabelle spoke. Her voice was even and cool. Bradford looked at her with awe. He had no idea how she was keeping it like that.
“What I'm doing?” Stilton laughed. “I wonder if you know what you're doing?” He raised a finger, wagging it in her face. “These people are dangerous. They'll kill you, and your poncy gent there, and I...oh!”
Mirabelle hadn't meant to move forward, Bradford was sure. But he heard the slap ring out across the courtyard, followed by a small exclamation of horror.
“You vixen!” Stilton shouted. “You struck me.”
Mirabelle had frozen, her hand falling limply
to her side. Her face had gone chalk white. Her adversary had gone white, too, except for the livid red finger-marks on his left cheek. He raised his right hand then, and struck out, and that was when Bradford lost all track of anything else.
“No!” the shout tore out of him, almost without his conscious control. He ran at Stilton, throwing him off his feet and back into the doorway with the force of his blow.
It spun them both round, and as Stilton collapsed, Bradford went down too, carried on the force of his blow.
“No!” he could hear Mirabelle screaming somewhere in the distance. He knew he should stop. He wanted to stop. But the rage wouldn't let him. This man had been tormenting Mirabelle for too long. That blow was the final step in a journey he should have ended weeks ago.
“Bradford, stop it!”
He felt hands grip his shoulders, and someone – Mirabelle, he guessed – fasten claw-like hands on his shoulders, drawing him back. He felt some of the rage leave him, followed by the sudden coldness of his senses returning. He let her draw him back and stood.
Beneath him, Alfred Stilton scrabbled sideways, then stood with what dignity he could muster. Looking at the look of stiff fury on his face, Bradford felt the beginning of a conviction that he had done something very wrong.
“You, sir...” Stilton hissed, holding a kerchief to the cut on his cheek, “are a madman. You will answer for this in court. I tell you...”
Bradford opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak another voice did.
“No, he won't.”
The arid voice was cracked with age, but was stiff with authority. Bradford turned to see Lord Prychley, who had been Colonel Prychley and still carried that command inside him, stare the fellow down.
“Prychley?” Stilton said, half-shocked, half with derision. “What do you think you're saying?”
Prychley stood tall, sniffing frostily. “This man defended Lady Mirabelle. I saw you strike her, and don't think I didn't, or that I wouldn't testify as such if you chose to make a case of it. No. I know precisely what you've been up to, Alfred Stilton. And, should the need arise, I will make sure you receive punishment. Don't think I wouldn't.”
Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2) Page 19
