Rescued from Ruin

by Georgie Lee

  ‘If you’re speaking of Lord Strathmore, don’t trouble yourself. She isn’t interested in him.’

  ‘Or she’s interested in his title and a manor house in the country.’

  Randall’s fingers tightened on the back of the sofa, one fingernail finding the rough edge of a chip in the smooth paint. ‘One mortgaged up to the gables?’

  ‘Her money for his title. She wouldn’t be the first colonial to make such an exchange.’

  Randall picked a slice of paint from the chip, wondering if Cecelia was seeking more than a husband for the cousin. She’d once asked for the protection of his title, just as Uncle Edmund had predicted she’d do, but she’d been desperate back then. She was rich now and there was no reason for her to debase herself with Strathmore just to force people she disliked to bow to her. It was only Madame de Badeau’s wicked tongue seeking to turn him against any woman but her. The Frenchwoman was overestimating his esteem if she thought she could trifle with him. ‘I’d prefer if you didn’t interfere with me and Mrs Thompson.’

  ‘Oh, but I must. After all, she is my friend.’

  ‘You don’t have friends.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’m already involved and, since nothing else has arisen to amuse me this Season, I have no choice.’ Her narrow eyes met his with a challenge and he wished again he’d skipped this little ritual.

  ‘But how serious you are this morning.’ She laughed, trying to break the sudden chill between them and not succeeding. The sound of the front door opening caught their attention and, a moment later, Miss Domville attempted to slip past the door. ‘Marianne, come in here and greet Lord Falconbridge.’

  With the pursed lips of a petulant child, Miss Domville stepped into the room. Despite her fine features and well-formed figure, she wore a plain grey pelisse lacking decoration and style. It stood in direct contrast to her sister’s lavish ruffles and lace and Randall sensed the girl had deliberately chosen it to irritate her sister.

  ‘Good day, Lord Falconbridge,’ Miss Domville offered tersely, one foot turned to leave.

  ‘Whatever are you wearing?’ Madame de Badeau scolded before Randall could return the greeting. ‘Take it off at once.’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘That was an order, not a suggestion. Dalton, come in here.’ The thick-necked butler, smelling faintly of brandy, stepped into the room. ‘Please help Miss Domville out of that awful pelisse and give it to the poor.’

  Dalton took the pelisse’s collar and Miss Domville shrugged out of the garment, the walking dress beneath no fancier.

  ‘I don’t see why you insist on hiding your body beneath such ugly clothes,’ Madame de Badeau chided as Dalton left. ‘No gentleman will look at you if you keep dressing like a nun.’

  ‘Better a nun than a strumpet,’ Miss Domville sneered.

  ‘You hate me. Good. Then you’ll marry faster and be gone from the house.’ Madame de Badeau stirred her tea, the silver spoon clinking against the flowery cup. ‘I only hope you aren’t foolish enough to wait for love. Find a rich, accommodating husband, like Lady Weatherly did, one who won’t trouble you too much. After all, with a figure like yours, you might enjoy any number of young men once you’re settled.’

  ‘May I go?’ Miss Domville seethed.

  ‘Yes.’ Madame de Badeau waved a dismissive hand. ‘Hurry off and do whatever it is you do all day.’

  Miss Domville fled the room.

  ‘Silly child. One would think she didn’t want her freedom.’

  ‘She’s young. In time, she’ll see how the world is and adapt,’ Randall said carelessly, covering a yawn with the back of his hand.

  ‘Perhaps what she needs is someone to introduce her to the finer points of conducting herself in matters of love.’ Madame de Badeau eyed him over the cup.

  ‘An amusing prospect.’ Randall stood, disgusted and eager to be free of the house. ‘But I’m not about to start ruining young ladies, with or without their guardian’s permission.’

  Madame de Badeau set her cup on the table, the effect of Randall’s rebuff evident in the rattle of the china. She stood, fingering the lace of her robe. ‘Are you attending Lady Ilsington’s ball tomorrow night?’

  ‘I am.’ He was tired of these society rounds, but knew Cecelia would be there. It was the one bright spot in what looked to be a dull evening.

  ‘Good, then we’ll both be able to play our little games. Until tomorrow night.’

  She held out her hand and Randall nodded over it instead of kissing the knuckles. Irritation hardened her eyes and not even her charming smile could hide it. Randall dropped her hand, straightened and left the room, not giving a fig for her mood or her desire to meddle.

  In the hall, he expected to see Dalton waiting with his hat and walking stick, but the butler was nowhere to be seen.

  Where is the man?

  He stormed to the window, flicking aside the curtain to see Mr Joshua pacing back and forth in front of the carriage.

  Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned, eager to collect his things and go, only it wasn’t Dalton, but Miss Domville who appeared.

  She hurried up to him, carrying his hat and walking stick, shooting a cautious glance at the morning-room door as she approached.

  ‘I know more than she realises,’ Miss Domville whispered.

  ‘Yes, I’ve gathered as much from the way you listen at doorways.’ He adjusted his hat over his hair.

  She held out the walking stick. ‘You’re a friend of Mrs Thompson?’

  ‘I am.’ He reached for the stick, but she pulled it back.

  ‘Then tell her to be careful. My sister does not have her best interests at heart.’

  ‘She’s never had anyone’s best interests at heart except her own,’ he snorted, wondering what the chit was about. Other than pleasant civilities, he’d never had so much as three words from her.

  ‘Marianne, are you out there?’ Madame de Badeau called from the morning room. ‘Come in here at once.’

  ‘Good day, Lord Falconbridge.’ She shoved the stick at him, then trudged into the morning room.

  Randall pulled open the front door and stepped outside, Miss Domville’s odd warning nagging at him. Madame de Badeau had been kind enough to introduce Cecelia to society and the woman wasn’t one for kindness, but he couldn’t imagine what she might gain by ruining Cecelia. No doubt Miss Domville’s cryptic words were only an attempt to stir up mischief in order to spite her sister.

  Randall twirled his walking stick as he stopped beside the carriage.

  ‘Well?’ he asked Mr Joshua, eager to hear about Cecelia’s reaction to the necklace.

  Mr Joshua held out the box. ‘She sent it back.’

  ‘What?’ Randall snatched it from him, his fingers crushing the velvet. ‘Why?’

  ‘She said she couldn’t accept such a gift.’

  ‘Of course she could. What woman doesn’t accept jewellery?’

  ‘’Tis a rare one indeed, my lord.’

  ‘Apparently, I’ve found her.’ Randall shoved the slender box in his coat pocket. ‘Did she at least like it before she sent it back?’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘Then why did she send it back?’

  ‘I don’t know, but you have her permission to call.’

  ‘How generous of her.’ Randall climbed into the carriage and tossed his hat on the opposite seat. He settled on the squabs, his hands planted on top of his walking stick, his fingers tight on the silver handle. He should have known she’d reject his gift. She’d done nothing but toss him aside since Lady Weatherly’s salon.

  Mr Joshua picked up the hat, brushing it off with his hand as he sat down across from Randall.

  ‘Where to, my lord?’ the groom asked.

  ‘To Mrs Thompson’s, my lord?’
Mr Joshua hazarded from across the carriage.

  ‘No.’ If he walked into her sitting room now, she’d know at once the effect she had on him. Most likely it was the real reason she’d refused the necklace. She’d challenged him to a game last night and now they were playing it.

  ‘My lord?’ the groom pressed.

  ‘Home,’ Randall commanded.

  The groom started to close the door, but Randall stuck his walking stick between it and the jamb.

  ‘No. To Mrs Thompson’s.’ He would be the one to set the rules, to make the moves, not her.

  Mr Joshua’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he said nothing as the groom closed the door.

  The carriage set off and Randall sat up straight, balancing himself with his walking stick. Mr Joshua kept his thoughts to himself and Randall was glad. He was in no mood for the man’s humour.

  What the devil was he doing going to Cecelia? Sending the gift back was a message and his visit would be an answer. He should wait a few days, then call upon her without a hint of agitation. He could go to White’s, but after his win against Lord Westbrook, the club and the company were proving tedious. Too many men like Lord Malvern kept hoping to make a name for themselves by challenging him to a game of cards. Though at the moment, the social upstarts’ nagging seemed more preferable than a widow determined to annoy him.

  He raised the walking stick, ready to bang it against the roof, but stopped.

  ‘Is there something you need, my lord?’ Mr Joshua asked as Randall lowered the stick.

  ‘No, nothing.’ There was no reason to appear agitated and it didn’t matter if she’d refused his gift. He could purchase a hundred such tokens and distribute them throughout London without a second thought.

  The carriage turned a corner and the houses became more simple and understated. He settled back against the leather and stretched out one leg across the floor. He was not about to let her see the effect she had on him. This was his game and he would run it.

  * * *

  Cecelia rubbed her forehead with her fingers, unable to write any more. It was the third letter she’d drafted to Paul asking, then demanding, now pleading with him to pay her widow’s portion. The other two letters smouldered in the grate, the heavy scent of smoke echoing her mood. She snatched the letter from the blotter, crumpled it and tossed it in with the others. No, she wouldn’t beg. She might ask and insist, but she would not beg. She took up her fourth sheet and in simple words made her case for the payment, reminding him of Daniel’s desire to see her taken care of and a son’s duty to obey his father’s wishes. She paused at the end of the letter to look at the slanting lines, knowing nothing she wrote would make a difference. Virginia law might demand he pay her, but there was no one in England or Virginia willing to help her press her case. All the people who’d flocked to Belle View after Daniel’s death had closed their doors in her face.

  Paul might respond if the crest of Falconbridge were etched on the top of the paper.

  She stuck the pen back in its holder, nearly laughing aloud at the thought. She wasn’t likely to get any help from Randall, only more trinkets and the start of a questionable career as a courtesan. Things were not desperate enough to place her feet on such a road. At least not yet.

  She sealed the letter, summoned Mary and gave her instructions for its delivery. Mary was not two feet out of the room when the front doorknocker sounded through the hallway.

  ‘Mary, if that is Lord Strathmore, please tell him I’m out,’ Cecelia called, hearing footsteps in the hallway and assuming they were the maid’s.

  ‘It’s not Lord Strathmore and I can see very plainly you’re in.’ Randall came around the corner and the room seemed to shrink as he entered, his presence filling the small space. He wore a cinnamon-coloured coat, which added to his size, while the black waistcoat cut close to his stomach emphasised his lean strength. Cecelia braced herself as he strode towards her, waiting for his arms to press her against the firmness of his chest and for his mouth to claim hers as it had last night. She fingered her gold bracelet, her whole being scared tight by his approach, yet ready to melt into his calming embrace.

  He stopped before her, sweeping off the hat and handing it and the walking stick to Mary, who hurried up behind him, red faced with embarrassment.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Thompson, he came in as I was leaving to post your letter,’ the flustered girl explained.

  ‘It’s all right.’ The anticipation drained from her, the lack of his embrace leaving her as unsettled as her strange craving for it. ‘Please see to the letter.’

  The maid dipped a curtsy and hurried away.

  ‘I’m glad to hear you’re putting Strathmore off. I thought you two were becoming quite close.’ Randall laughed, a noticeable edge to his jest.

  ‘Lord Strathmore and I are not close.’ Despite the initial rush of excitement, she didn’t relish seeing Randall on the heels of her letter to Paul. It only heaped one insult on top of another.

  ‘Cecelia, have you seen my fan?’ Theresa called out before she stopped at the morning-room door, her lips forming an O as wide as her eyes. ‘Good afternoon, Lord Falconbridge.’

  She dipped a curtsy, teetering with barely contained giggles as he answered it with a respectful bow.

  ‘Good day to you, Miss Fields.’

  ‘Theresa, your fan is on my dressing table,’ Cecelia answered, eager to send the girl and her giggles away, but Theresa lingered in the doorway.

  ‘I’ll fetch it at once. I’ll probably be upstairs for a very long time,’ she announced, looking back and forth between them as if helping to plot an elopement.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Cecelia’s terse dismissal did nothing to dampen her cousin’s conspiratorial smile and Theresa floated out of the room, her giggles fading as she hurried up the stairs.

  Cecelia turned back to Randall, wishing she could dismiss him as easily as Theresa, especially since he wore the same annoying smile as her cousin.

  ‘Miss Fields is a charming young lady,’ he complimented. ‘Quit bold and spirited.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve allowed her more freedom than I should have, but it was different in Virginia. I find it difficult to be strict with her now. It’s not our habit.’

  ‘It’s charming to see. Not everyone I know is as kind or loving with their charges.’ His smile faded into something more serious, like a man watching a child play with a wooden top and wishing he could find the same joy in something so simple.

  ‘But I suspect you didn’t come here today to discuss my cousin.’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’

  Cecelia motioned to the chairs near the table. He chose the sofa in front of the window instead, dropping on to the cushion at one end. She looked at the other end, empty and inviting, and chose the small chair across from it.

  ‘Why did you refuse my gift?’ he asked with startling directness.

  ‘Did you really drive all the way here to ask me that?’

  ‘I drove here because you said I could.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d call so soon.’

  ‘Are you disappointed?’

  ‘No. Surprised.’ He’d been so eager to be rid of her ten years ago. Why was he so persistent now?

  ‘Good, I like to surprise you. It amuses me.’

  And there was her answer. ‘Surely there are other people in London to amuse you.’

  ‘Perhaps, but they aren’t as kind and honest as you.’

  She swallowed hard. Honest was the one thing she hadn’t been since coming to London. ‘You are too kind.’

  ‘And you are determined to avoid answering my question.’

  ‘Not at all. I shouldn’t have been so bold with you last night. In the spirit of the evening, I forgot myself, which I can ill afford to do, not with Theresa to think about. I must safe
guard my reputation as well as hers if she’s to find a husband, and accepting expensive gifts from gentlemen is no way to do it.’ This was as close to the truth as she was willing to venture.

  ‘What about accepting a gift from a friend?’

  ‘Are we friends?’

  ‘I’d very much like it if we could be.’

  ‘Why?’

  Randall shifted on the sofa, looking uncomfortable for the first time since she’d seen him at Lady Weatherly’s. ‘As you’ve discovered, London is full of shallow people and while, on more than one occasion, I’ve sought nothing but to cultivate their respect, I’d be lying if I told you it brings me great joy. It did once, but not any more.’

  He pulled the thin box out of his pocket and removed the lid. ‘You’re not like everyone else, you aren’t impressed with my title and you don’t hunger after all the things you think I can give you.’ The chain sparkled as he took out the pendant and laid it in the palm of one hand, cradling it like a delicate seashell. ‘I know I’ve been brusque, if not inappropriate with you, and it was a mistake. Please believe me when I say I wish us to be real friends.’

  He held out the pendant and she stared at the warm gold, wanting to believe in the sincerity behind his offer, but too afraid of being disappointed. He’d let her down once before, like almost everyone else in her life, and with so many troubles already plaguing her, there was little room for one more. ‘I’m not sure we can be friends.’

  ‘If you aren’t ready to accept my friendship, then please do me the honor of accepting the gift and giving me the pleasure of seeing you wear it.’

  Before she could object, he was on his feet and behind her chair.

  Her skin tingled as he came close, anticipation building with each sweep of his breath over the back of her neck. He lowered the necklace on to her chest, his fingers so close to her cheeks, he only needed to stretch them out to caress her. As the warm pendant touched the tops of her breasts, she drew in a long breath, catching faint traces of almond above the sharp metallic scent of silver from where he’d gripped the walking-stick handle. The chain draped up the length of her chest, feathery against her flesh like his fingers brushing the back of her neck when he fastened the clasp.