‘I don’t want to see any more, Hetty,’ Phoebe said, hoarsely.
‘Time to go home, I think.’
Clumsily, Phoebe turned the phaeton round and headed back the way they had come, blinded by the orange sun and by a sudden rush of tears. ‘I won’t cry,’ she croaked. ‘I won’t!’
‘I think you should ask him about it, cherie. Tomorrow. If you accept his offer, you have a right to know.’
‘Knowing any more isn’t going to make a scrap of difference, is it? Perhaps Ross knew about this when he said Lord Ransome has never been sued for paternity. If he’s quite content to recognise his own offspring, no one would need to sue him, would they? And judging by the size of that extension, he must have quite a large household.’
Was this what he’d meant when he’d told her to find out for herself?
Chapter Four
After that revelation, it would have been surprising if Phoebe had slept soundly. On the one hand, the solution to her most urgent problem was there for her to accept or reject. On the other hand, the price of the solution was to be everything she had nurtured and kept inviolate, her freedom, her independence, her body and her property. How much did that matter when she would be allowed to remain here at Ferry House? And what of Leon, deeply in trouble? The reactions of Ross and Josephine had come as no real surprise, yet she would have liked it to be otherwise. They called on her hospitality whenever it suited them; theirs to her was severely limited. In this case, it was absent altogether.
The problems turned over and over, confusing in the darkness, waiting for the single blinding flash of illumination that didn’t appear. Between the complications, sneaking in like guilt, came thoughts of the bold aristocratic male who’d turned her life upside-down, of those eyes that understood too much, piercing her guard, unsettling the peace of her days and nights. She thought of the aura of rugged power he brought into the room simply by standing there, wide-shouldered, slender hipped, the haughty tilt of his head, used to commanding. And being obeyed.
She recalled what she could of Claude, who seemed to shrink by comparison, slight of build, porcelain pale, delicate of hand, exquisitely mannered and superficial, clever enough to deceive her on all levels. She had been a girl. She would not tremble now if he came near her, as she had recently in Buck Ransome’s presence. As a girl, she had appreciated the light weight of Claude, rather immature and full of himself. Now, when her sexuality had been awakened and left to starve, she had felt the rawness of her need, felt the seething white-hot ache leap once more into her thighs at the touch of Ransome’s teasing hand, his lips on her skin, over her mouth, and she knew that his kind of loving would be the only kind her body craved. Turbulent. Unsparing. Consuming.
But he had a mistress and children and now, she supposed for the sake of his title, he needed a wife. He would have a ready-made house to move into and she, the wife, would be his society hostess whenever he needed one, having already been trained to the role. How clever of him to see all the advantages in one quick glance, at no expense to himself. To her, that role would be a sacrfice as great as the others; the sharing of a husband with another woman, not far away, who had already given him sons.
Lord Ransome’s phaeton, unlike Phoebe’s, was a crane-neck, more weighty and solid on its bearings than a perch, but more prone to overturning on sharp bends. For a long-legged man, climbing up into the high two-seater presented no difficulty. For a lady wearing a gown of striped green lustring with a plain green sleeveless pelisse, the climb relied on two strong hands around the waist and a moment or two of trust when she felt herself to be completely reliant on his strength. The green-and-gold panels bearing the Viscount’s crest were shallow, the seat velvet-covered, the Wilton carpet soft and clean, the poles and buckles silver-plated. After being used to her own sedate vehicle, Phoebe felt she might easily be tipped out of this one, bouncing on high springs. She knew, however, that Buck Ransome was one of London’s best whips, his satin-skinned chestnuts some of the best that money could buy. He spread his feet across the foot-board, and there was nowhere for Phoebe to escape the warm intimacy of his thighs as he turned the phaeton through the gates towards Richmond.
‘You said we were to go to Ham,’ she said, ‘which is in the other direction.’
‘Yes, Madame Donville. But I have a mind to drive you round Richmond Green first, before we go up the Hill.’ ‘Why?’
‘To show you off.’ He glanced sideways at the gold-edged pelisse, the green gloves and boots, at the black curls that escaped the green-trimmed straw bonnet. Her beaded reticule and a small package lay on her lap, prompting him to compare, yet again, the young woman he had half-known in London to this fiery sharp-tongued beauty whose future he had just commandeered, to her fury. Still distrustful, still dismissive, her dark eyes did not slide away this time, but continued slowly down in a critical study of his blue coat and white breeches, lingering over the soft leather gloves and the reins running over them. He knew what she was thinking. Indeed, her blush told him that he was correct.
Steadily, over the rutted track, they pranced round the four sides of Richmond Green, past the elegant houses where Ransome knew she would be obliged to acknowledge the salutes and waves of those she knew. The gossip, he thought, might as well be accurate.
He drove the phaeton on up Richmond Hill, after that, where a greater press of riders and coaches laboured to and from the Star and Garter, the upper Park Gates, and the stunning view from the top. He slowed the chestnuts to a walk as they wove through the crowd. ‘I believe a number of French emigres live round here,’ he said. ‘Do you know any of them, madame?’
‘You can guess the answer to that, my lord. To keep my distance is the best for me, and for them,’ she said. ‘I have no idea how much they know, but I’ve never tried to find out, either.’
Expressionless, he looked straight ahead. ‘After all this time, I think you may find that those who fled here from the Revolution are hardly seeking to settle old scores amongst their neighbours. They’re simply relieved to be safe. And for another thing, Claude Donville was one of them, not us. They themselves dealt with the matter in their own way, and such treachery was not at all the isolated incident you seem to think it was. I could tell you of several such scandals, but that’s what war does. It breeds the worst and best in men. You were a mere seventeen and about to become a mother when you were widowed. Time enough, they would say, for wounds to heal.’
‘Their wounds, or mine?’
‘Both. You refer to the money, I know, but here in Richmond they’ll know what kind of a woman you are, what kind of child you have, what you’ve done for the community, employing unfortunates, rebuilding the house, selling what you grow. They’ll have consumed some of your produce, no doubt.’
‘So what are your plans for my gardens, my lord?’
‘I’ve hardly thought about it but, since you ask, I see no reason to change anything. Why would I? You’re surely not still concerned about this idea of revenge, are you? You could accuse me of being opportunist, if you like, but I have no time to be seeking revenge for anything. I wish you to be my wife because that seems to be the best way to deal with this situation. For your sake and mine. I don’t need a mistress, I need a wife, madame.’
Phoebe seized her chance. Would he admit it, if she pushed him just a little in the wrong direction? Artlessly, she tried it out. ‘You don’t need a mistress? Oh…oh dear, I had wondered…but never mind.’
‘Never mind what?’
‘You’ve answered my question before I asked it. I’ve been thinking, you see.’
‘About my extremely generous offer?’
‘About your offer, yes, and I wondered why you would not prefer to have a mistress instead of a wife. Is it perhaps because you already have one?’
‘The short anwer to that,’ he said, slowing the chestnuts and drawing them in to the side of the track, ‘is no, I don’t. One woman at a time is enough, two would be madness. A wife and a mistress is
not my style.’
‘Too expensive, you mean?’ Phoebe said, watching him closely from beneath the brim of her bonnet. His response had not been what she’d expected. Not at all.
He kept a hold on the reins, but now gave her his full attention. ‘What exactly are you saying, madame? Come on. Out with it. Are you telling me you would prefer to be my mistress rather than my wife?’
‘There are advantages,’ she said, scanning the green Thames valley below.
‘Not many. What happens at the end of an affaire? You’re still a sitting tenant in my house and I’m back where I was before. No, thank you. What I need is a wife, a home out of town, and—’
‘But you already have a home. In Mortlake.’
‘That’s a different kind of home.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘I’d be very surprised if you did. What advantages do you see in being a mistress?’
‘I could hardly expect you to understand.’
‘Then try me.’
‘For one thing, it would shock my family,’ she said, hoping he would accept the reasoning. And the subterfuge.
‘That’s an advantage? Well then, madame, you can shock them even more by being my wife. Can’t you?’
‘That doesn’t have quite the same shocking ring to it, and my mother would be quite pleased, I imagine. Could we not perhaps…compromise?’
His firm mouth twitched, then broke into a wide smile that was almost a laugh. ‘Compromise? Did I hear you aright? Say it again?’
‘I shall do no such thing. I was trying to be serious.’
‘Well, then, I shall have to guess. What you mean, I suppose, is that you want more time, and you think that an affaire will keep me at a distance. Eh? Is that more like it?’
‘No, that is not what I meant. Not at all what I meant,’ she replied.
‘Good. Then let’s forget that idea, shall we? It’s not bastards I want, but noble-born sons from a woman of quality. There are too many bastards in the world already.’
‘But you’ve—’ She looked down at her hands, biting back the words.
‘I’ve what?’
‘Nothing. Shall we go on? I think you’ve made your point, my lord.’
He waited to see if she had more to say, then lifted his hands ready to start. ‘Yes, well…I think it’s time I made my point rather more forcibly.’
‘My brother and his wife visited yesterday, after you’d gone,’ she said, rather too quickly.
‘Oh? Offering to help?’
‘No, nothing like that. Offering to be with me when you next visit, that’s all.’
He set the phaeton in motion. ‘Oh, is that all? Well, they won’t be.’
‘How do you know that?’
He made no answer except for the briefest of glances in her direction, and the burning that stole upwards from neck to cheeks stayed with her until the few houses came into sight that made up the village of Ham.
The track turned back upon itself, taking them beside the river towards redbrick walls, stable-blocks, and a view Phoebe recognised from her brother’s painting. ‘This is it,’ she said, leaning forwards, pointing across the river to a white house perched on a green lawn on the other side. ‘That must be Marble Hill.’
‘And this, madame, is Ham House.’
Without breaking their spanking trot, the chestnuts turned in between blue-and-gilt painted gates towards a very large and imposing house of redbrick picked out with white along all its edges, three-storeyed, multi-windowed, set back in the centre with bays at each side. A very large, bearded and naked man made of stone lounged upon a rock in the forecourt, clearly a god from his crown of laurels and serious expression.
‘But this is the Earl of Dysart’s home,’ Phoebe said, in awe. ‘Is he really your friend?’
‘I’ve known the Dysarts for years,’ said Ransome, ‘but he’s only been an earl for four of them. His brother Lionel lived here before that, so the place was in a bit of a state until the sixth Earl and his lady took it over. He was a Member of Parliament until recently, then High Sheriff of Cheshire. A soldier before that. A man of the world.’
‘So why on earth would he be interested in Leon, my lord?’
She didn’t expect an answer while she was being helped down the portable steps by footmen. They came running at the first sign of visitors, liveried, white-stockinged, belonging to an earlier generation. One of them ushered the guests up the shallow stone steps and through the heavy oak door with coats of arms, plinths, pilasters and pediments. Entering at one end of a large hall, they were greeted by full-length portraits on every wall, the ancestors, and by two plaster figures balancing precariously on the mantelshelf, as oblivious to the comings and goings as the River God outside.
A man’s voice, cultured and authoritative, floated down into the lofty hall from above. ‘Buck…ah, there you are! I’m coming down. Wait there!’
Phoebe looked up to the grey-spindled railing round the first-floor gallery where a man’s face disappeared from view, taking the command with it. The quick click of footsteps, the sharp trip of shoes upon the staircase must, she thought, belong to an agile man. Almost leaping from the grand staircase across to the chequered floor, a white-haired elderly man of military bearing came to meet them with such courteous enthusiasm that Phoebe was completely taken by surprise, having met few men of his age who possessed that kind of energy.
Both hands shot out to clasp Lord Ransome’s, grasping his arm too, but it was to Phoebe his attention was directed almost immediately. ‘Buck, my lad, good to see you again…but who…?’ His white eyebrows lifted as he pulled himself erect, keeping his eyes on her face until she glanced uncomfortably at her escort.
‘Madame Donville, Lord Dysant,’ Ransome said. ‘Madame, allow me to present Lord Dysart.’
‘But surely,’ said the Earl, holding his chin as if it might fall off, ‘surely this lady is Phoebe? Isn’t she, Buck? Isn’t she our Phoebe Hawkynne?’
‘Madame Donville’s maiden name was Hawkin, my lord. There is a likeness, isn’t there? I was sure you’d see it.’
Phoebe had made her curtsy and was now aware of some mystery here, and that they would share it with her in their own time.
The Earl appeared to recollect himself. ‘Forgive my appalling manners, Madame Donville. I am truly honoured to meet you. I don’t usually delve into my guests’ ancestry as soon as we meet, but in your case…well, perhaps if you would care to come with me, I can show you the reason for my astonishment. Come!’ Already he was heading again for the staircase, and Phoebe suspected that this was his way, immediate, losing not a moment of whatever time was left to him.
Ransome offered her his arm up the carved stairway, smiling secretively at his host’s reaction, which he’d been reasonably sure of. They came to the gallery from where the Earl had looked down into the hall, where more ancestral portraits hung against a patterned turquoise wallpaper. The Earl stood back, looking up at a young couple in the costume of the late sixteen hundreds, the pale sheen of silk folds, frills of lace, satin ribbons and velvet. And the statutory King Charles spaniel. They were a darkly handsome pair, the man wearing a sword-sash across his coat, the lady holding a gold pendant with a moon on it, their free hands tenderly entwined. Two children nestled against them, a small serious-looking boy and a girl with a mop of black ringlets.
‘Sir Leo Hawkynne,’ said the Earl, ‘was a Scot. He was secretary to the Duke of Lauderdale, who married the Countess of Dysart, one of my ancestors. And this is his lady, Phoebe. Now, do you see anything of interest here, Madame Donville? A family resemblance, perhaps?’
It was uncanny, she thought, to be looking back at herself in period dress, the same oval face framed by raven-black ringlets that both of them had tried to tie back with limited success. Dated 1684, the portrait represented almost one hundred and twenty years, several generations, yet the features were almost identical.
‘I had no idea,’ she whispered. ‘I knew there had always been
Leos and Phoebes in our family, but no one ever mentioned that the originals were husband and wife. I must admit that it gives me a very…very…strange feeling to be looking at my forebears, my lord. You must also get the same feeling when you see your ancestors looking back at you.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, I can never get away with anything while the family are watching every move. But that portrait was painted for the Duchess who was apparently very fond of them both. Which is why you’ll not have seen it before. I believe they had four children. Come to think of it, there was a Sir Leo Hawkin in my regiment, the 6th Foot. Could that have been…?’
‘My father, my lord. He was killed when I was very young.’
‘An excellent man, too. And you have brothers, do you, madame?’
‘Leon is the eldest. I’ve brought something of his to show you, my lord.’
‘So you all grew up fatherless? Now that is a tragedy. Show me, madame.’ He led the way to the window side of the gallery where he seated Phoebe on an enormous velvet-covered footstool while he and Ransome perched beside her, receiving the unframed watercolour from her as if he had already perceived its value. Angling it towards the light, he studied it without speaking, giving Phoebe the chance to watch how his mobile features softened over the palette of colours, the mingling of pigments, the delicate draughtsmanship. His hair, fine and white, was short enough to show the pink scalp beneath, the folds of his face and the delicate lines following a merry path rather than a downtrodden one. Ransome had told her that his friend was a keen amateur artist, and a connoisseur, a term that applied to many men of too much wealth and time. But of this man’s genuineness she had no doubts.
Scandalous Innocent Page 16
