From the corner of a blue eye she saw he was still watching her. But Rachel didn’t turn about or acknowledge his attention in any way. Instead she thanked Ralph as he helped her up into the travelling chaise. Settling back into the creaky old squabs, she deliberately turned her head away from the bricks and mortar she loved…the house she would soon scheme and battle for.
Since the afternoon in the library earlier in the week when she had learned of her sire’s drunken antics, and had had the brazen audacity to take him to task over turning her world upside down, father and daughter had kept their distance—and a glacier of politeness between them—when a chance encounter brought them face to face.
Yesterday morning, at breakfast, when she had announced her intention to travel to London with Noreen Shaughnessy accompanying her, she had read in the glancing look that clashed her parents’ eyes that neither believed true the reason she gave for so soon journeying once more to the metropolis. Neither of them had challenged her decision to go; and only her mother commented upon it, pronouncing a slightly faltering hope that she should have a pleasant trip. Not that Rachel had expected them to try and stop her going. She was, after all, a woman approaching her twenty-sixth birthday. Every Michaelmas, for the past six years, she had travelled to Aunt Florence in York. This autumn would be no exception to the rule. Strictly speaking, it was not unusual or improper for her to travel alone with just a sturdy, respectable female servant for company.
On this occasion, because she wouldn’t be forced to be a liar by circumstances imposed on her by Devane, she’d every intention of acting on the excuse she gave her parents for her brief sojourn in town. She’d written straight away to Lucinda, and although it was too soon for a reply, she knew her friend would be grateful for her presence, as her little son, Alan, was an energetic child who, Lucinda had fondly moaned, was quite a handful now he was up onto his feet and getting nimble just as she was getting clumsy and retiring more and more to her day bed. When Lucinda had been pregnant with that little boy, Rachel had gone to stay with her friend, for poor Lucinda had suffered debilitating sickness in the first months of her pregnancy. Lucinda’s older sister was unable to assist as she was also in an interesting condition and soon due to be delivered of her second child. Paul Saunders had fairly begged Rachel to be an angel and undertake the office of companion and mentor to his wife, for he was anxious that the unremitting bouts of nausea were making her seriously depressed. Rachel, despite being a single lady, was very poignantly acquainted with those twins, pain and joy, that attached themselves so powerfully to pregnancy. She had wanted to be useful and was more than happy to keep her best friend company. Within a month the sickness ceased, Lucinda’s spirits lifted, and she sailed serenely through the latter part of her confinement.
Rachel was not yet sure how much she would reveal to her friend about what had really brought her to London. Obviously the gentlemen’s clubs and the ladies’ salons would have been abuzz with the news that Lord Devane had taken the Merediths’ country estate in a gambling hell. But, as her mother had rightly said, it was not so unusual an occurrence, for fortunes and property to change hands in such places.
That thought redrew Rachel’s awareness to the large oblong casement that overlooked the drive and presently framed behind squared panes a slight, solitary figure within its weathered beams. Still she avoided looking directly at him. She had taken up that position herself just a few days ago, and with pitiful innocence, gladly watched her papa galloping home. Never once had she guessed he might bring such awful tidings with him. Now it was his turn to stand sentinel and wait and watch. He, she was sure, knew full well she was going away with the intention of righting the appalling wrong he had done her.
Beside the carriage, Noreen was taking her leave of her sister. With a final pat at Mary’s broad back, she gave her a little push and Mary was obediently scuffling back over gravel towards the house. With a trenchant look at her mistress that terminated in a subordinate bob of her fiery head, Noreen was soon settling herself into the seat opposite with her dun cloak neatly pulled about her.
As the vehicle jerked forward Rachel instinctively turned her head, and looked up. Her father raised a hand. Involuntarily she returned the salute, although smiling back was beyond her. And then she’d lost sight of his pathetically gaunt figure as they entered the avenue of magnificent horse chestnuts that straddled the drive with gigantic timber limbs.
Edgar Meredith placed his raised palm flat against glass and watched as his eldest child slipped from sight into a tunnel of spring fresh greenery. He tilted his weary head and whispered to the ceiling, ‘Good luck, my love.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘Ahem, I don’t think that would be wise, Miss…er…Meredith, did you say?
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Well, Miss Meredith, I have no idea just how long the Earl might be abroad.’
‘Is he due to return today?’
‘Today, yes. When, I have no idea. I shouldn’t wish to alarm you with the news, madam, but yesterday his lordship was out from before midday to beyond midnight.’
‘Be assured I am not made timid by the knowledge. May I sit here?’
Rachel indicated the closest high-backed, uncomfortable-looking mahogany seat set against a cream-washed wall. In truth, the thought of loitering for so long was little short of terrifying. But then she doubted she would need to. It was not quite yet the hour to dine. She imagined Lord Devane might reappear to partake of his dinner before he socialised for the evening. The Earl’s butler was deliberately being pessimistic in order to move her on. He had the unyielding mien of a man charged solely with the task of preventing undesirables settling anywhere within this august abode. Even in this vast vestibule. But then it was exceedingly imposing, if a trifle austere, with its royal-blue velvet draperies and heavy dark furniture backed against the lofty walls.
Joseph Walsh, the butler, was under the impression that this woman should be grateful he was even granting her a show of tolerance. He strove to retain the illusion a while longer, lest he might be mistaken in mentally maligning her as an odd eccentric out on an obscure calling, or as a scheming minx out on the make. He’d been in Connor Flinte’s employ for some years now. He had travelled with the Earl to Wolverton Manor, his vast estate in Ireland and once, in the role of valet, endured less luxurious accommodation while sharing a bivouac with the Major on the continent, and he didn’t recognise her from amongst his master’s friends or formal acquaintances. He knew for sure she’d never been welcomed into this house.
You’d need to be a blind man to miss she was a beauty, beneath the smudges, and she was obviously driven by an urgent and stubborn desire to speak to the Earl. Not a promising combination, all things considered. Despite the grime, her attire was of good quality, her manner and speech proclaimed her genteel, and she looked to be some years past her majority…more missionary than mistress material…but then, when he reflected on the hussies that masqueraded as ladies in society, what did a crisp vowel and a nice poke bonnet signify?
Joseph Walsh had, in his career as gentleman’s gentleman, held positions with some of the most eminent bachelors the peerage could boast and he was fully cognisant of their self-indulgent pleasures. A few years ago he’d worked for a young viscount who would boldly knock up the household and usher lightskirts into his own residence when foxed and frisky. Most of his noble patrons had thankfully maintained some protocol and been entertained more discreetly by their paramours. But he was able to clearly recall, over twenty years of service, quite a few instances where bold wenches had turned up uninvited on the doorstep with their bellies swollen and their hands out too. Oh, he knew the tricks of that particular trade and the games the Quality played. Thus his eyes, beneath his wiry peppery brows, were professionally dispassionate in their distaste as he looked Miss Meredith over, in particular to detect any loss of a waistline under her cloak.
Rachel bridled beneath his supercilious scrutiny. Had she guessed wh
at really flared those fastidious nostrils, she might have slapped his po-face. She imagined what disgusted him was that ladies usually took more care with their appearance before presenting themselves at this illustrious address with every intention of gaining entry. She was not being seen at her best, she knew. Her hat was dusty, her pelisse hem mud-caked. She was, she admitted to herself, looking distinctly tired and travel-stained.
London and its environs had recently been battered by a wild bombastic storm, so the eloquent pot-man at the Bell at Edmonton had imparted when they had broke their journey on the way into London in order to refresh the horses, as they had on the way out of it barely a week ago. The courtyard at the hostelry had been running with mire that collected in the ruts engineered by the frequent to-ing and fro-ing of numerous carriages. And, careful as she had been to keep her clothes out of the potholes, her boots and hems had become encrusted on the short hop and skip from coach to tavern.
Now, after a lengthy journey, she was arrived at her destination. And she had no idea why she had acted so bizarrely by coming straight here without even repairing to Beaulieu Gardens to wash her face and change her clothes. A nap to refresh her body and mind would also have been of sound benefit before she went on the attack. Now, stranded, in Devane’s hallway, with the wind gone from her sails because he was nowhere about to take the full vent of it, she realised it might be best to try and make a dignified retreat and return when better able to cope with the situation.
A smart young footman was lounging by the entrance, still holding wide one side of the double-doors while leering at her. Obviously he expected her to be sent back down the stone steps, possibly assisted by the toe of the haughty butler’s boot. She tilted her chin, glared at him with ice-blue eyes and knotted her mouth in violent indignation. It clamped tighter for she was suddenly bedevilled by the vulgar urge to regale these two menials with the news that she had once had the good sense to reject the man they obviously deemed too grand to grant her an audience, even had he been within doors.
Coolly, determinedly she bit her tongue, and gathered her bespattered garments in her tight fists. Keeping the heavy hems clear of the polished wood floor, and skirting the cream and blue oriental rug with a fierce dragon design, she swept to the mahogany chair she had opted for and made use of it. In case that didn’t clearly display her intention to sit tight, she untied her bonnet strings, combed out her untidy golden snarls with nervous fingers, then placed the headgear on her lap with an air of absolute finality.
She stared challengingly at the footman by the door until his cocky expression drooped. He swivelled uneasy eyes to his superior. The butler merely jerked his faded sandy head, and at the signal the great door was pushed shut. With a furtive expression of admiration now on his face, the smartly liveried young footman was marching off into the deeper recesses of the house.
‘Is his lordship expecting you, Miss Meredith?’ Joseph Walsh asked with exceedingly weary courtesy.
‘Yes,’ Rachel immediately lied. Then with a wry inner smile realised that, of course, it was probably no lie after all…
Rachel glanced up at the hallway clock and noticed the time was already five minutes to eight; she calculated that Noreen would by now be unloading at Beaulieu Gardens. On discovering that Lord Devane was out, a pre-arranged signal to Ralph, waiting in the road, had sent their carriage on its way. From a purely practical point of view, it seemed pointless for them all to kick their heels in Berkeley Square, awaiting the arrival of the usurper. Noreen could be usefully employed in unpacking the trunks, and Ralph in attending to the horses.
Her servants thought she was addled in the wits, too. She had seen it in their watchful eyes as she alighted in front of this magnificent townhouse, looking distinctly the worse for wear yet obstinate that she would present herself at once.
Noreen had limited her cautions on the wisdom of so soon making a call to simply clucking her tongue and muttering, ‘Sure, an’ you’ll be after wanting to see to y’self first, m’m. Time enough tomorrer to see your friends.’
‘Tomorrow, I shall see my friends, Noreen,’ Rachel had told her as she gazed up at the elegant façade of her foe’s residence. But today, I must see him, had echoed on silently in her mind.
Ralph had gruffly stated, quite sweetly paternal, she had thought, that he would call back for her in a hour so she must then be good and ready to leave. Rachel had soothed his unspoken, oblique worries by saying she forbade any such thing for she was certain she would be offered transport home. In view of the bitter accusations congesting her mind, awaiting to be blasted at his lordship’s head, she knew she could expect no such courtesy. But she had the means to purchase a ride home later and hackneys were readily available. It had been early still; just seven-thirty and the evenings so light at this time of the year. It had only fleetingly crossed her mind that it might be pitch dark when she finally got to find her bed at Beaulieu Gardens…
Rachel leaned her heavy head back against the wall, watching through the fanlights over the double doors the silver crescent and trio of spangles placed like fancy patches on midnight-blue velvet. A wispy cloud dimmed their mesmerising shimmering, and with a sigh she looked away from the heavens. Her head fell sideways, loosening yet more golden tresses to drape her cloaked shoulders, and she glanced at the clock. It was a superfluous checking, for each sonorous hour chimed away by the magnificent time-piece in the corner had roused her from her troubled thoughts. Ten-fifteen was the time. Those fifteen minutes had dragged like fifty since last she’d been startled into straightening in her hard, inhospitable chair.
After being presented with a little refreshment at eight-thirty—a glass of lemonade and some cinnamon biscuits—she’d remained ignored in the hall, except for a phlegmatic look from the butler on each hourly vigil that took him to the front door to needlessly check and rattle the locks. Even on collecting her empty plate and tumbler an hour later he’d said nothing to her.
During the lonely quiet with just her thoughts to keep her company, an unavoidable introspection had produced nothing inspiriting. Instead, a disquieting certainty was plaguing her that she had acted with a total lack of sense or maturity after arriving at this illustrious address. Adamant she would not be worsted by servants who had insinuated she was unworthy of their attention, never mind that of the Earl of Devane, she had insisted on forcing upon them her presence and demanding an audience with their master.
Six years ago, when she had been engaged to Connor Flinte, their social standing had been fairly equal. He had been a catch, no doubt; but then so had she, with her beauty, her youth and her heiress status.
Now she was past her prime and the heart of her inheritance was gone; a chasm seemed to yawn between their conditions. How her pride was pricked by knowing it! And by recalling how her adversary had been fawned over at the Pembertons’ musicale. At thirty, he was more eligible than ever; he was obviously well-liked, not only by her partisan father, but by the fashionable set. His London residence, she could see, had some costly, stately appointments, and his servants were naturally charged to vet his callers. Had she not been feeling so very defensive, she would have accepted that his butler was simply attending to his duty, not taking a personal dislike to her. In fact, as she had not requested refreshment, that was an unexpected kindness on his part.
Grudgingly, she realised she had been treated with more respect than perhaps her petulance allowed. As the hour grew late and it became obvious the master was not returning to dine…or to see his visitor, his manservant could have insisted she leave…but he had not.
More and more, as the minutes dragged on, was she beset by an urge to slink away. Yet she couldn’t. For her own peace of mind she must remain where she was. It seemed pointless staying, yet equally ill-advised to leave. If she fled, details of her bold intrusion would be recounted to the master when he arrived home.
Arriving here like a whirlwind, acting like an unkempt harpy, in the hope of impressing on him that she didn’t
give a fig how she looked for he was not worth the courtesy of a clean dress and a scrubbed complexion, had been the sort of tempestuous conduct that would better befit a child Sylvie’s age. She had wasted over two hours that could have been put to such good use. She yawned, let her lids flutter low over her drowsy blue eyes. A bath, a proper meal…a nap. All those alluring comforts she had missed. She could have chosen oblivion for a few hours. She could have opted for the opiate of blessed sleep…
Words were whispering in her brain like malicious ghosts, slowly penetrating her cosy dream, spoiling it. She turned her head fitfully trying to recapture the magic of laughing with Isabel, chatting with Isabel…being with Isabel.
Isabel raised her hands; pale fingers were outstretched to her, teasing, as though they might beckon, not wave farewell as she dreaded. They did neither; she felt a gentle human touch on her cheek, stroking. She was being soothed because her sister would soon be gone again…lost to her and far…far away. The fair oval of Isabel’s face, the gleam on her long fawn hair were becoming indistinct…fading, even though Rachel called to her…demanded she stay with a sob cracking her voice.
Rachel sought those hands, wanting the comfort of the embrace, but a redolence of masculine scent, a hard male body, frightened her senses out of their coma. She jerked upright in her seat, then tried to press backwards into it. She stared through misty, sleep-blinded eyes at a man. His dark, frowning face was close to hers and she realised he was squatting close to her chair. Beyond him were fuzzy silhouettes of two other men. She blinked and swallowed, blinked and swallowed, already fearful of the dreadful embarrassment which was building just beyond the blanking residue of her daze. For on the periphery of her mind still tormented the anxieties that had hounded her into sleep. Oh, she was aware that shame was creeping closer to cow her and she closed her eyes tight, hoping to hold it at bay.
Mary Brendan Page 10
