Scandalous Innocent

by Juliet Landon

  ‘Is that why you kept the dance programme he signed when you were sixteen?’

  ‘His is not the only name on it.’

  ‘I think it is, dear.’

  ‘It doesn’t prove anything, Hetty.’

  ‘No, dear. Indications and evidence are not proof, that’s very true, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  Hetty sighed and readjusted her spectacles, taking the tatting-shuttle from her workbasket. ‘One can go on looking, and rejecting, and wondering why life flies past at an alarming rate, Phoebe dear, and suddenly one can wake up to the fact that, if we’re not perfect, why should we expect to find someone who is? Viscount Ransome has offered to marry you, yet you’re still looking for reasons why you should not accept him, even though it’s the answer to our problems. Isn’t it time you thought about the advantages? Does he have to leap into the lion’s den to retrieve your handkerchief next?’ It had once been a favourite story, ending badly.

  ‘No, Hetty. Don’t be cross with me. I can see the advantages for all of us, not just for myself. But I trusted once, and now I’m trying to be careful.’

  ‘But time is not on your side, is it, love? He appears to have fulfilled his side of the bargain.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Perhaps we’re a bit further on than you think.’

  Looking up sharply from her tatting with fingers poised over a half-made picot, Hetty studied Phoebe’s pink face, then continued with her edging. ‘Ah,’ she murmured, mysteriously. ‘That would explain quite a lot.’

  As previously arranged, Phoebe was driven over to Mortlake in Lord Ransome’s phaeton just after breakfast, dressed in her prettiest white muslin walking-dress sprigged with tiny blue flowers. A pale blue spencer covered most of the bodice, leaving deep white frills all round the neckline and wrists. Blue satin ribbons fluttered from the ruched bonnet, a creation which was rudely disturbed when, after drawing his team to a halt in the middle of Richmond Park, Lord Ransome turned to kiss her with a trace of that ruthlessness she had complained about only last evening. Then, without a word of explanation, he continued the journey.

  Phoebe righted her bonnet, tucked a stray curl inside, and held the back of her gloved hand to her mouth with the merest sideways glance at the rather smug expression on her companion’s face. ‘Is that what a mistress must expect, my lord?’

  ‘Yes. A wife, too. Planned spontaneously again.’

  ‘Tell me about Leon, if you please. Is there any improvement?’

  ‘The transformation is remarkable. He was sitting up in bed eating breakfast when I left. However,’ he warned, ‘I think you may see a change in him since you last met. He’s lost weight, for one thing. Nothing to worry about. We’ll soon fatten him up. He needs exercise, too. And fresh air. Don’t be too concerned.’

  She was glad of his lordship’s warning, as her first impression of her brother was that, if this was looking remarkably better, she was glad not to have seen him yesterday or she might have burst into tears. It was yet another reason, she thought, to be grateful to Lord Ransome for his forethought. Sitting up in bed against the white pillows, Leon might have been invisible but for his unruly shock of black curling hair that corkscrewed damply after a recent bath. His eyes, sunken beneath heavy brown lids, were dark and still bloodshot, fastening on his sister’s concerned face and filling with sorry tears even before a word had been exchanged.

  ‘Dearest…ah, dearest one!’ Phoebe said, taking him into her arms. ‘Hush, love, don’t weep. It’s all right…really… it’s going to be all right. Now we can look after you, and feed you. Shh!’

  ‘Can you forgive me, Pheeb? I’d never have hurt you willingly, you know that. I’ve been such an idiot.’

  ‘We help each other out, love. That’s all there is to it. Where was Mama in all this? Did she not contact you?’

  ‘Under Templeman’s thumb, where she usually is, these days.’

  ‘Mama? Under a man’s thumb? That’s news.’

  ‘Does Ross know?’ he said, wiping one eye on the sheet.

  ‘Yes. Mama wrote to tell him, not me.’

  ‘That’s another Hawkin under a thumb,’ he whispered.

  Phoebe sat back, puzzled. ‘Ross? Under Josephine’s thumb? Surely not.’

  Leon’s single nod was unambiguous. ‘Certainly is, Pheeb. Always has been. Social climber. If you stand still long enough, she’ll take you for a ladder. She angled for me before Ross, remember, because I’m the eldest. And before that—’ he glanced across at his host with a raised eyebrow that spoke volumes ‘—she had her sights set on that great hulk. But enough about them. What happens to you, Pheeb? That’s what bothers me.’

  ‘I have plans, but the main thing is you, Leon. Are you still painting?’

  He looked away, unable to meet her questioning. ‘Not for ages,’ he whispered. ‘I want to, but…well…’

  ‘We have a friend who wants to help. Is your hand steady?’

  ‘I dunno, Pheeb. My eyes are not.’

  Ransome was more optimistic. ‘They will be, my friend. Stretch out your hand and let’s see if yesterday’s shakes have gone.’

  The hand was steady, the wrist slender and graceful, the nails too long.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that. All you need is rest and good food. We’ll take you to see this friend of ours in a day or two. He likes your work.’

  Leon frowned. ‘Where’s he seen it? I don’t exhibit.’

  ‘My watercolour,’ Phoebe said. ‘The one you gave me. I took it to show the Earl of Dysart at Ham House. He says you have a rare talent.’

  They had not expected a show of excitement, not from a man in his frail condition, but nor had they expected his face to crumple like a child’s, and his eyes to fill with tears, for the second time. ‘Why?’ he croaked. ‘Why are you being so kind? I don’t deserve it. I’ve ruined everything for you, Pheeb, and you’re rewarding me. Is it some kind of new punishment?’

  Phoebe squeezed his hand and, at a signal from Ransome, kissed her brother’s forehead and stood up to go. ‘Just rest, love, and we’ll talk about it later.’ She left the Viscount alone with him for a few words before he joined her, but in those brief moments she had time to see that there were many doors all round the spacious landing and that the house was in fact larger than it appeared from the outside. Why would anyone want to enlarge a house with so many rooms already? She had caught a glimpse of the housekeeper on the way in, middle-aged in grey gown and white mob-cap, definitely not a mistress. But no sign of the two young boys.

  ‘He’s sleeping again,’ Ransome said, closing the door. ‘He needs to catch up. Don’t be distressed, sweetheart. He’ll be up and about tomorrow. And all my wines and spirits are under lock and key, so he won’t get a drop from me, I promise you. Now, come downstairs. I have something interesting to show you.’

  The entrance hall was spacious too, with high-ceilinged rooms leading off in all directions, rather sparsely furnished, serviceable rather than elegant, and enough dining chairs to seat a generous dinner party. So, she thought, he intended to entertain, did he? There was so much she ought to know about him before their relationship moved on.

  ‘In here,’ he said, ‘is my study.’

  All men had studies, book-lined offices for the clutter of estate management, correspondence, hobbies, a place to talk to agents and stewards. Ransome’s was no different from a hundred others with leather-covered chairs and the aroma of beeswax and snuff. ‘I had a letter from your other brother this morning,’ he said when she was seated. ‘Delivered by hand. Not before time. Perhaps you’d like to take a look?’

  ‘Thank you, I would. But you made no mention of it to Leon just now.’

  ‘Read it.’

  It was brief, taking her only a few moments to get the gist of what Ross was proposing and even less for her to react, her eyes blazing with indignation. The letter shook in her hand. ‘He wants you to sell it? To him? Increase in the family…needs more rooms for nurse…and the large garden? Ferry Ho
use? My home? Well, he didn’t waste much time there, did he?’

  Ransome took the letter from her. ‘Perhaps he thinks I don’t need it,’ he said.

  Stunned, Phoebe shook her head, trying to understand what lay behind the offer, real need, or the need to get his own way after all the hints and grumbles. ‘I could have understood it if he’d wanted it for me, so that I could stay there. You might still have said no, but at least it would have been a charitable thing to do. But to ignore the fact that I need somewhere to live, with my household, is the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard, Buck. He didn’t offer to buy it when it was empty and derelict, did he? Leon might have sold it to him then. But now? How could he do such a thing?’

  ‘I must admit I’m quite puzzled by it. Did they discuss where you might go?’

  ‘Not seriously. But they’ve been hankering after Ferry House ever since I spent all my money on it. Too big for me. Just right for them. But you won’t consider his offer, will you, Buck? It’s part of our agreement.’

  Leaning down, he took her by the hand and pulled her up against him. ‘Stop worrying,’ he said, softly. ‘Our agreement stands. We shall need Ferry House to live in, shan’t we? I’m not selling it to anybody.’

  ‘Oh, Buck! You won’t change your mind, will you?’ Her arms slid round his back to rest upon the solid warmth of him, and the breath was gently squeezed out of her in a gasp of laughter before their lips met for the second time that morning.

  ‘I cannot get enough of you,’ he breathed. ‘And, no, I shall not be changing my mind about anything, Madame Donville. You are my responsibility now, and there will be no going back.’

  ‘Thank you again for rescuing Leon. After our first meeting last week, I didn’t think you were capable of such kindness. I see I have much to discover about you.’

  ‘I intend that you shall discover all kinds of wonderful things before many more days. And nights,’ he added, kissing the tip of her nose.

  ‘I suppose Ross thinks you’ll be living here. As you do now.’

  ‘He can think what he likes, sweetheart. But you’re partial to the idea of shocking him, are you not? So if you wish to take a little sweet revenge that will do no harm, I could agree to discuss the matter with him. To keep him interested.’

  ‘To raise his hopes, you mean? Oh, that would be wicked, wouldn’t it?’ she laughed. ‘He deserves it, Buck. Truly, he deserves to be let down, for a change.’

  ‘I’ll send a message to him today.’

  ‘And shall you tell him we have Leon here?’

  ‘I think we might let him find that out for himself, don’t you? He’s shown very little interest in Leon’s plight, and none in yours either.’

  ‘So will you show me round, now that I’m here?’

  ‘No, I’m taking you back home. We have a concert to attend this evening, remember. However, since you have a moment or two to spare…’ Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, he removed it and laid it upon his desk. ‘There,’ he said, pulling her back into his embrace, ‘now I can kiss you without poking my eye out.’

  ‘I would like to have looked round, though.’

  ‘When the workmen have finished, you shall. I want you to see it ready for use. Now, can you contain your questions while I use your lips for something else, please?’

  For what use? she wanteds to ask. Why would a man like Buck Ransome need two houses in the same area unless he had two families to maintain? Without admitting that she’d spied on him, how could she find out the truth?

  Chapter Six

  Handing her mistress the carved ivory fan, Miss Cowling cast a critical eye over Phoebe’s deep red gown shot with blue, adjusted the bows on the short sleeves and almost smiled with approval. Miss Cowling never smiled, but one knew by her manner when she was pleased. The silk changed colour as it caught the light, showing up the dress-maker’s art in the bias-cut panels, the bands, and the layered bodice cut low across the bosom. ‘Thank you, Evie,’ Phoebe said. ‘Is that my reticule?’

  ‘Handkerchief. Mirror. Lip salve,’ said Miss Cowling, passing her the purse. ‘And your velvet cloak in case you need it. It might be cool later on.’ It had been years since Phoebe had worn the red silk dress, now subtlely altered to suit current fashion but no one would have known it from her demeanour, least of all the one who waited below, almost lost for words at the sight of her beauty.

  Lord Ransome, who looked outrageously handsome whatever he wore, never looked better than in the evening dress-coat of dark blue with a collar of black velvet, his long limbs moulded into tight silk-jersey breeches the sight of which would be the envy of most men at the Ham House soiree. It was to be an evening, they both knew, when they would find it difficult to keep their minds on the social event instead of what might happen afterwards.

  As it turned out, their evening was not the ordeal Phoebe thought it might be after being out of company for so long, expecting to know only a handful of the other guests. She knew several members of the Vestry in Richmond who were responsible for, amongst other things, the poor people of the parish, but the presence of so many French noble-men and ladies was not at first one of the more pleasant surprises.

  ‘I thought, dear,’ said the Countess of Dysart just before they took their seats in the great hall, ‘that it would be nice for you to meet them. They know all about you, but they’re great respecters of privacy, of course.’

  ‘All about me?’ Phoebe whispered to Ransome in alarm. ‘Does she mean that?’

  ‘From the French guests. Water under the bridge,’ he said. ‘Forget about it. I told you, they’re more thankful to be over here in safety than to hang on to past offences, especially when the offences were not yours.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to say that,’ she retorted in a whisper. ‘So why did you wave the subject under my nose when you first came to see me?’

  ‘How else could I make sure you’d keep talking to me?’

  ‘That was most ungentlemanly, my lord.’

  He smiled wickedly and took her hand. ‘Come, we’ll sit with the Misses Berry, shall we? You know them, don’t you?’

  ‘We’ve met a few times. They live on The Green.’

  The hall at Ham House was not vast, but sixty people seated on plush-covered chairs was a comfortable crush of silks and velvets, gauzes and feathers, diamonds, frills and fluttering fans. More guests sat upstairs all round the balcony to look down upon the nodding heads and the group of musicians at the dais end, and to catch the music as it floated upwards. The Earl and his lady were perfect hosts, the Earl in a powdered wig worn only by the older generation these days, with a long embroidered frockcoat of brown velvet over cream satin. His beloved wife could be seen, rather like a church steeple, from any part of the room by the amazing confection of tall feathers and spumes of blonde lace spouting from her head-dress. But perhaps that was the intention, Phoebe thought as she glanced around her.

  Her eye was caught by the young lady sitting on the other side of the Misses Berry, shimmering in white silver-threaded lawn, obviously French and classically fashionable. The young lady turned to smile at her with large dark eyes, as if she knew who Phoebe was, and would be her friend.

  ‘The niece of the Princess d’Henin,’ Ransome told her. ‘She lives on The Green too. I’ll introduce you.’

  It was obvious, Phoebe thought, returning the smile, that he had been to these events before. She tried to concentrate on the music. ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ was a favourite of hers. The Royal Firework Music. One of the Bach Brandenburg Concertos, arias by Purcell, and a beautiful Schubert string quartet. All favourites. But her mind and body, which should have been in accord, all senses engaged, were not as in tune with each other as the instruments. Memories pervaded every soaring phrase with the sound of his voice, the scent and touch of him as he sat close, shoulders touching; hands strong and tender, resting only inches away; memories of knees and thighs nudging hers, his mouth savouring her skin, making her quiver, vibrate, a
nd cry out. She had cried out, she remembered. And that had only been the beginning. Unclothed, there would be more.

  He took her hand and held it on her lap. He knew her thoughts. Too much for a man of such short acquaintance. And she would marry him. Oh, yes, there was no doubt about that. She had allowed him into her life, and had discovered in only a few days what it was like to have a man to take charge of problems, to make decisions, to offer her the peace and safety of his protection. Already she was less fearful about the nagging French issue and all its ramifications. With him beside her here in the Earl and Countess’s home, what need was there to carry her fears into the future? He was right. It was time to let them go.

  During the interval the guests were led away into the dining room where a beautiful parquet floor made an interesting talking point as they gathered to seek friends, food and drink. Crimson curtains glowed warmly in the candlelight from mahogany stands, silver and crystal winked between salvers of food, flowers and fruit drooping from epergnes. It was time, Phoebe said to herself, that she did some entertaining of her own, for, judging by the number of guests eager to meet her, she had more friends than she had thought possible.

  So, between sips of wine and nibbles at tiny delicacies, the magnificent widow Madame Donville, tragic victim of the Revolution and therefore linked to themselves by association, was introduced to the Richmond French set, the young Marquise de la Tour du Pin who had smiled at her, the Comtesse de Balbi, mistress of the Comte de Provence who lived in Sir Joshua Reynold’s house on the Hill, two aged princesses and a duchess, writers and musicians, artists and architects. Speaking to them fluently in their own language, she immediately won their hearts, and by the end of the supper interlude, her sparkling eyes radiated a kind of happiness she had not experienced for many years. It was as if that particular ghost was laid for ever. Not even the thought of her relatives finding out about Claude could mar the sense of relief that overwhelmed her for, if these people could accept the tragedy, then why not her own family?