by Mary Nichols
That she could describe such things, he put down to her taste in reading and a vivid imagination, not experience. She had spoken with spirit, her eyes glowing in the darkness, so vividly alive that he was obliged to clench his fists at his sides to stop him from pulling her into his arms. The tension he felt clamped his jaw, so that he could not trust himself to speak.
‘You are silent,’ she went on. ‘Do you not agree?’
‘Oh, you are right,’ he said, forcing himself to respond. ‘I can find no fault with your argument.’
‘There is nothing more to see,’ Charlotte said, laying her fingers lightly on his arm. ‘Shall we walk a little? The coloured lanterns in the trees are so romantic, don’t you think?’
‘Miss Roswell, forgive me,’ he said, turning to smile down at her and leading the way along one of the many pathways which wound around the gardens, many of them ending in little arbours. ‘I am persuaded you share Miss Hundon’s particular concern for the destitute soldiers.’
‘Oh, I cannot believe they are destitute,’ she said. ‘Surely they have been given pensions?’ She looked up at him coquettishly. ‘You do not look like a man who is impoverished. I do believe you must outdo Mr Brummell, though I have never met that gentleman.’
‘It is different for Lord Braybrooke,’ Sophie said from behind them where she was walking with Freddie and Lady Fitzpatrick. ‘He is an officer and a gentleman of independent means.’
‘Of course he is,’ Charlotte said. ‘Did I say he was not?’
‘Miss Roswell, you are putting Lord Braybrooke to the blush,’ Freddie put in, annoyed with Charlotte for playing up to the viscount. ‘Pray desist.’
‘I was only bamming.’ She turned to walk backwards in order to face him and Sophie. ‘And I do not know what he means when he says I share your particular concerns, Sophie. Have you voiced concerns to his lordship?’
‘I expect his lordship was referring to our conversation the first time he was so good as to take us to the park in his carriage,’ Sophie said.
‘Fancy him remembering that. I had quite forgot it.’
Either Miss Roswell was very good at dissembling or she was not the benefactress he had supposed her to be, Richard decided. Then who was it? Not Miss Hundon herself, for she had no money with which to be munificent. Lady Fitzpatrick, perhaps? It might account for her allowing Miss Hundon to go out alone, but her ladyship did not give the impression of being a philanthropist, or plump in the pocket. Ten to one she had been paid to chaperone the young ladies.
The mystery occupied his mind to such an extent that he lost the thread of the conversation going on about him. Charlotte, who had resumed walking at his side, had to speak to him twice to bring him back in line. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Roswell.’
‘I said the fireworks are not to be let off until midnight and I suggested we might go to the bandstand and listen to the orchestra. I believe we might buy refreshments from a tent nearby.’
‘By all means.’
They had barely taken their seats when Charlotte nudged Sophie. ‘Is that not Monsieur Latour over there, Sophie?’
‘Goodness, so it is. He is with his wife and little boy.’
‘Oh, do introduce me to Madame Latour and the little boy, Sophie. I do not think I have ever met a real live French family.’
‘Of course you have. London is full of emigrés, has been ever since the Terror. Why, the French king was exiled here until he returned to France at the end of the war.’
‘Well, I never met him, did I? Oh, he has seen us and is coming over.’
Monsieur Latour was indeed making his way over to them, his wife on his arm. Pierre skipped ahead and made a formal bow before Sophie. ‘Ma’amselle Hundon. Papa has brought us to see the sights. It is past my bedtime but he says it does not matter for I may sleep late tomorrow. Did you see the battle?’ All this was said in breathless French.
Sophie smiled. ‘Yes, and I am sorry for it.’
‘Why?’ He turned as his parents came up behind him. ‘Ma’amselle did not like the tableaux, Mama.’
‘Did she not?’ Monsieur Latour smiled and bowed. ‘Miss Hundon. Viscount Braybrooke. It is a pleasure to meet you again.’
Sophie left her seat to shake hands with Madame Latour and introduce her to Lady Fitzpatrick, Charlotte and Freddie. It was only when they sat down they realised the language would be a barrier to conversation. Monsieur Latour spoke a little English, but his wife and son none at all.
Richard tried manfully to keep up with them, but it was left to Sophie to translate, which she did without hesitation, moving fluently from one language to the other. It was only when the Frenchman commented on it that she realised she had probably made a dreadful mistake. ‘I had a French governess,’ she said, trying to retrieve the situation.
‘She is to be congratulated,’ he said. ‘I could almost take you for a native, though the accent is not Parisian.’
‘I believe Madame Cartier came from Brussels,’ Sophie said, wishing the ground would open and swallow her because Richard was looking at her with a strange gleam in his eye.
‘Miss Roswell did not share your teacher?’ Madame Latour asked.
‘No. We have not always lived together. My cousin did not come to live with us until her guardians died in a tragic accident two years ago.’
‘Pauvre fille.’ Madame Latour patted Charlotte’s hand sympathetically. ‘Lady Fitzpatrick is not your guardian, then?’
Because Charlotte had not understood the question, it was left to Sophie to reply. ‘No, only while we are in London for the Season. We are to come out into Society at a masked ball in three weeks’ time.’
‘Ah, yes, the invitation we ’ave received. Lady Fitzpatrick is very agreeable to ask us. Malheureusement, we expect to return to France the week before.’
Sophie hoped fervently that her relief did not show as she expressed her regret.
The conversation was interrupted when the first of the fireworks burst upon the sky and Pierre cried out with excitement. Richard hoisted him on his shoulders and pushed his way through the crowd to be near the front and the little boy sat perched on his vantage point, his eyes round with wonder as, one after the other, the fireworks fizzed skywards and fanned out in brilliant colours of red, yellow and green before dropping to earth.
Sophie’s heart contracted as she watched them. What had she said to Charlotte all those weeks ago when they walked in the woods at Upper Corbury? He must be good with children. Viscount Braybrooke was giving every appearance of enjoying the company of the little boy and was not at all concerned about Pierre’s boots dirtying his lilac coat.
She found herself with an image of Richard at Madderlea, playing in the garden with several children. Their children. Oh, if only…But being good with children was not the only requisite she had expounded. There had been a whole list of them. How vain and top-lofty she had been! But he had been no less arrogant in his requirements and she must remind herself of that when she felt herself weakening.
The endpiece of the display was a huge wheel which spun round emitting brilliant sparks and illuminating a huge set-piece of Saint George slaying the dragon, which breathed fire and smoke. Richard, who had explained the story to Pierre, set him down and took his hand to return him to his parents; soon afterwards the Latours took their leave. It was very late for Pierre to be out, Monsieur Latour explained, and now he had seen the fireworks, he must be taken home to bed.
‘I think it is time we went too,’ Freddie said, looking daggers at Charlotte who was hanging on to Richard’s sleeve and looking up at him for all the world as if she adored him. It was all very well to say she was pretending for Sophie’s sake, but she was doing it too brown. And he didn’t see that it would do a pennyworth of good. ‘Lady Fitzpatrick is already slumbering.’
They turned to look for the dowager and discovered her sitting on a bench with her head dropped on her chest and her bonnet all askew. ‘As a chaperon, she is hardly to be recommended,’ R
ichard laughed. ‘Why, we could have carried you off and she none the wiser.’
‘One must suppose she took you both for gentlemen,’ Sophie said, though he could not tell if she were indulging in sarcasm or not.
‘I suggest you wake her and bring her to the entrance, while I call up the carriage, before the temptation to prove otherwise overwhelms me,’ he said.
She looked up at him, eyes glittering. ‘Again, my lord?’ The words were said in an undertone and not heard by Charlotte and Freddie who were gently shaking her ladyship awake.
Furiously he turned and strode away to find the carriage among the long line waiting for their owners to tire of the entertainment and ask to be taken home. Some would still be there at dawn, he well knew. It was a place for secret assignations and declarations and stolen kisses in the dark, but all he had managed was a stringent exchange of words which told him nothing except that she had not forgiven him.
But he had learned something. He had learned that she spoke fluent French and Miss Roswell did not. Miss Roswell professed never to have met a French family and yet, according to the on dits which were current about town, she had spent her childhood in Belgium. He was beginning to wonder if she had ever been abroad. But if not, where had she lived the first fifteen years of her life?
And had Miss Hundon really had a Belgian governess? And one called Cartier, a very similar name to the one adopted by her at the refuge. Tonight she had not looked or behaved like a country cousin; her clothes had not been flamboyant but elegantly understated. She had a presence, a stature which demanded attention. And lips that asked to be kissed, too. And he had not even managed one private word with her! He had wanted to ask for her forgiveness for the kiss he had stolen and to try and explain himself, but all he had done was to confirm her disgust of him.
The only way he would succeed in returning himself to favour, if he had ever held that exalted position, was to forget all about that embarrassing list of requirements and begin again, as if he had only just met her, to take this business of courtship seriously. But was it already too late?
‘Richard!’ He looked up at the sound of his name and was appalled to see his aunt and cousin bearing down on him.
‘Richard,’ his aunt said, tapping him with her fan. ‘We did not know you were to be here. Why did you not say? We could have come together.’
‘I am in company, Aunt.’ He made his bow to both ladies. ‘Good evening, Emily.’
‘Whose company? Shall we join forces for supper?’
‘We are on the point of leaving. The ladies are fatigued.’
‘Ladies, eh?’ She laughed. ‘Barques of frailty. Oh, well, sow your wild oats, if you must, but do remember what is expected of you before the Season is out.’
‘How could I forget?’ He was on the point of explaining that his companions were not barques of frailty, when Frederick hove into view with Sophie on one arm and Charlotte on the other, followed by a somewhat sleepy and dishevelled Lady Fitzpatrick.
Lady Braybrooke laughed, making the tall plume on her turban nod. ‘My goodness, what a handful you have there, Richard. I do hope you can manage them.’ She gave Charlotte an unctuous smile, while ignoring Sophie. ‘Good evening, Miss Roswell. Lady Fitzpatrick. I was about to suggest supper, but my nephew tells me you are fatigued and are going home.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ Charlotte said. ‘The night is well advanced.’
‘Oh, I had forgot, in the country you go to bed at sunset and rise at dawn. You must find town hours very irksome.’
‘Not irksome, my lady,’ Sophie said sweetly. ‘Unhealthy perhaps. I have heard it said that rest taken before midnight is more efficacious than that taken during the morning. It makes for a smoother complexion and a better temper.’
Richard laughed aloud and earned a swift look of annoyance from his aunt. ‘You live in the country three parts of the year yourself, Aunt Philippa, so you must have heard the expression.’
‘Of course I have heard it, it is not meant for the haute monde, but the labouring classes. Take the ladies home, Richard, but I shall expect you to escort Emily and me in the park tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Ma’am, I am…’
‘Oh, please do,’ Emily said. ‘We have been in town nearly a week and you have not taken me out once.’
Richard’s inbred good manners would not let him give his cousin a set down. He bowed to her and to his aunt in acquiescence and turned to offer his arm to Sophie, only to find she had taken Freddie’s arm and was strolling towards the carriage with him, her bonnet so close to his cheek they were almost touching. He gave his arm to Charlotte.
Sophie could not sleep. Plagued with visions of Richard, she went over every conversation they had ever had, every look they had exchanged, remembered the taste of his lips on hers, the vibrant masculinity of his body when he held her in his arms. She argued with herself that it meant nothing except that she was a total innocent when it came to men and was no more to him than a mild flirtation. It must be so, for he seemed to be able to turn to Charlotte, his cousin Emily or Miss Greenholme with perfect ease of manners.
She tossed about so much the bedclothes were heaped around her, the pillows flattened. She sat up and pummelled them angrily. It was nearly dawn; she could see the light through the curtains, the outlines of the furniture and the reflection of the bed in the long mirror. She rose and went to the window to draw the curtains back and sat on the window seat to watch the pink light come up over the roof tops.
Was Lord Braybrooke still out on the town, playing cards at his club perhaps, or had he gone home to bed? Why was she so obsessed by him? The lamp lighter went down the street extinguishing the lamps; a cat padded along the street with a mouse in its mouth; a milkmaid led a cow to the back door of the house across the other side of the road, its udder heavy with milk. A chimney sweep, black as the soot he shifted, walked down the road, a sleepy-eyed young boy in his wake. A hackney stopped on the corner to set down a late-night reveller. Another day had begun, another day to live through.
She turned, slipped on a house robe, and went downstairs. A skivvy was clearing out the grate in the dining room, humming tunelessly under her breath. ‘Oh, miss, you startled me,’ she said. ‘Did you want something?’
‘No, Hetty, you carry on.’
She wandered all over the ground-floor rooms, her legs as heavy as lead. She desperately wanted to sleep, but she could not. It was all her own fault, this mull she had made of her life. She had been so sure of herself, so sure of what she wanted, so determined to put Madderlea first, she had embroiled not only herself but Charlotte, too, in a game of make-believe without considering what the consequences might be. It had all been intended to find the husband of her dreams, but it had turned into a nightmare. Only she was wide awake!
She went back to her room and sat on the rumpled bed. Lady Fitzpatrick and Charlotte would not be awake for hours. Suddenly making up her mind, she flung open her wardrobe door and pulled out her riding habit. She would go riding and blow the blue devils away in a gallop.
Luke, who had a room above the stables at the mews, was still fast asleep when she made her way there. Rather than wake him, she saddled Pewter herself with a man’s saddle and set off alone, trotting through the quiet streets towards Hyde Park.
It was going to be a warm day, but now the air was pleasant with a slight breeze which lifted her red-gold curls as she set her horse to canter along the almost-deserted ride. But cantering was not enough. She turned off the path and spurred Pewter to a gallop across the grass.
It reminded her of the rides she had taken with her Uncle Henry around the estate at Madderlea. She had not been back since that dreadful accident because Aunt Madeleine considered it would be too upsetting for her. But she ought to go back. She should know what was going on there even if she was debarred by law from having control of it. She ought to test her memory, find out if it really was worth all the heartache she was suffering. Supposing when she saw it again, she disco
vered it was no more than bricks and mortar, a millstone, as Lady Braybrooke had suggested? Then what?
She drew up and jumped down to rest her horse, sitting with her back against a tree trunk while he cropped the grass close by. Bricks and mortar. What did Richard think of bricks and mortar? But it was a heritage too and there were people involved, flesh and blood like she was, people who worked and ate and drank and loved. Love. What exactly was it? Her eyelids drooped as her thoughts went round and round, going nowhere.
Richard found her there, under the spreading branches, fast asleep.
After he left the ladies at Holles Street, he had felt too restless to go home, knowing his aunt and cousin would be waiting for him, fussing over him, questioning him. He had sent the carriage back to Bedford Row with the coachman and walked about for hours, so deep in thought he had no idea where his steps had taken him, except that just before dawn he had found himself back at Holles Street as if he had been drawn to it like a magnet.
All the contradictory aspects of Miss Hundon and Miss Roswell’s characters had been going round and round in his head until he was dizzy. He was almost to the point of believing they were not Miss Hundon and Miss Roswell at all, but two imposters, out to trap him. But why?
Was there anything in his past which might account for it? Had he ever done anything to cause two apparently innocent young ladies to want to play games with him? He was no greenhorn and there had been several ladies in his life, little bits of muslin, barques of frailty, as his aunt had so succinctly put it, but he had never knowingly hurt any of them. And he had never met Miss Hundon before; he would certainly have remembered her if he had.
He had stood outside the house, staring up at the windows, wondering which one was Sophie’s. He had been answered when he saw the curtains being drawn and just managed to duck out of sight as the subject of his contemplation looked out. He was not the only one who was sleepless.
A few minutes later she had come out and darted down the lane to the mews, the skirt of her riding habit bunched up in her hands. Keeping hidden, he followed and saw her mount and trot away towards the park. His doubts were forgotten and he hurried after her, but by the time he reached the ride she was nowhere to be seen.
