A Change of Fortune

by Sandra Heath

  Winded, she stumbled against the damp wall, pressing back as the watch gave chase, their whistles shrilling deafeningly in the confined space. One of them had stopped to assist Stella, who had almost collapsed with terror now. Leonie hurried to her. “Stella? Stella, are you all right?”

  The girl gave a glad cry and ran to her. Leonie held her close as the watchman raised his lantern suspiciously, his quick glance taking in Leonie’s tousled silver-fair hair, so vivid in the lantern light and so strangely uncovered by hat or bonnet.

  “Right,” he said gruffly. “Let’s be having your names and addresses, then.”

  “I am Miss Conyngham of the seminary in Park Lane, and this is Miss Stella de Lacey, the niece of Sir Guy de Lacey.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Oh, yes? And I’m the Queen of Sheba. Ladies don’t go out alone at night, especially not in Lansdowne Passage. Let’s have the truth now. Who are you, and where do you live?”

  “I’ve already told you,” replied Leonie.

  “You expect me to believe that? One of your customers get out of hand, did he? Want more than he’d paid for?”

  Leonie gasped indignantly. “How dare you speak to me like that! Do I look like a streetwalker?”

  Stella clung to her. “Please,” she whispered, “please take me to Uncle Guy’s house.”

  The watchman looked uncertain then, but he still wasn’t entirely convinced. “Right,” he said after a moment. “Right, I’ll take you to Sir Guy’s house, and then we’ll see if you’re telling the truth, won’t we? Come on.” Holding his lantern high to illuminate the way, he escorted them to the steps into Berkeley Street.

  Guy’s house lay almost opposite the entrance to the passage. It was a dignified brick house, austere and beautifully proportioned, with pedimented second-floor windows and stone balustrades. Its round-headed door was approached by three shallow steps, and Guy’s name was on the brass plate which shone very brightly in the lantern light as the watchman knocked loudly. The sound echoed up through the house.

  At first there was no response, but as the watchman continued to knock, they at last saw flickering candlelight within. A footman, his wig not quite straight and his dressing gown tied hastily around his waist, looked out cautiously. “Yes? Who is it?”

  Stella pushed inside. “It’s me, James! Where’s Uncle Guy?”

  “Miss Stella?” The footman stared at her in astonishment.

  Leonie and the watchman followed her into the square entrance hall, which led through to an inner hall from which rose a magnificent double staircase. The walls were pale blue and contained gilded niches in which stood beautiful statues, but the first entrance hall, in which they now gathered, was dominated by a solitary painting hanging above the marble fireplace. It was a portrait of Imogen. She looked ethereally beautiful, her red hair twisted up into a loose knot and twined with tiny strings of pearls. She wore a very décolleté white gown which displayed her charms to the best advantage, and it seemed to Leonie that the portrait was watching her, its magnificent blue eyes haughty and scornful.

  Guy’s voice came from the staircase then. “What is it, James? Is there a disturbance?” He appeared at the entrance to the inner hall, wearing a floor-length dressing down made of green shot silk. Beneath it his frilled shirt was unbuttoned, and he still had on the tight-fitting trousers he had worn during the evening. His hair was disheveled and his dark eyes angry.

  Stella gave a glad cry and ran to him. “Uncle Guy!”

  Instinctively he caught her close. “Stella?” He looked across at Leonie then. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  Before Leonie could reply, the watchman stepped respectfully forward. “Begging your pardon, Sir Guy, but I found them both in Lansdowne Passage, and they said the young lady was your niece.”

  “She is.”

  “Yes, Sir Guy. I can see that she is. There was some trouble in the passage, and the teacher here called for help. It was lucky we were close by.”

  Guy’s eyes swung angrily toward Leonie again. “You were in Lansdowne Passage with Stella? Have you taken leave of your senses? If this is a sample of the care shown to its pupils by your establishment—”

  Stella drew away. “It wasn’t Miss Conyngham’s fault, Uncle Guy. I ran away. I hate it there, and I wanted to come home. She ran after me to try to stop me. Then there were those horrid men in the passage….” Her voice died away and she bit her lip, realizing more and more with each passing moment how much danger she, and consequently Leonie, had actually been in.

  Guy put his hand to the child’s chin and raised her face toward him. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” The reply was barely audible.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned to the watchman, taking some coins from his dressing-gown pocket and pressing them into the man’s hand. “You did well. I’m grateful to you.”

  The watchman’s eyes widened as he saw the amount. “Thank you, Sir Guy! Thank you kindly!” Still muttering his thanks, he withdrew to the door, and the rather bemused James showed him out into the night again.

  Guy turned severely to Stella again. “I’m disappointed in you,” he said sternly. “I thought that you truly meant to mend your ways, but already you show that you have no such intention.”

  Tears filled Stella’s eyes. “But I only wanted to come home!” she cried. She pointed accusingly at Imogen’s portrait. “I wanted to speak to you when she wasn’t here!”

  “That’s enough,” he snapped angrily.

  “Please, Uncle Guy,” she pleaded. “You must listen to me. She’s been making all the trouble, I swear that she has. She tells fibs about me, and says I’ve said and done things I haven’t.”

  “I said that’s enough! I will not have you speaking about Imogen in that way. I’m going to marry her because I love her, and you, madam, are going to accept that fact or remain at the seminary. Is that quite clear? Tonight’s little episode has merely convinced me all the more that you are quite unfit to return home. You are going straight back to Park Lane. You will not spend the night beneath this roof.”

  Stella stared at him, her huge eyes filling with tears. She turned to Leonie then, running into her arms, weeping bitterly. Leonie held her close once more. “It’s all right, Stella,” she whispered, smoothing the dark ringlets. “Please don’t cry.”

  Guy was still angry, but Leonie could see that he hated having made his niece cry. He turned away, beckoning James. “Have Mrs. Raikes rouse herself and bring some hot milk to the library. Then have my town carriage made ready. I intend to escort my niece and Miss Conyngham back to the seminary.”

  “Yes, Sir Guy.” The footman hurried away.

  Leonie and Stella sat alone in the library, sipping the welcome hot milk while Guy went, to dress for the short journey to Park Lane. The library was warm, its bookshelves reaching from floor to ceiling. The chairs were upholstered in dark green leather, and there were green velvet curtains at the tall windows. Guy had evidently been seated by the fire when he had heard their noisy arrival, for a half-finished glass of cognac and an open book lay on the small table by the lighted candelabrum. Leonie glanced at the book. It was Milton’s Paradise Lost.

  Stella cupped her glass of hot milk in her hands and gazed tearfully at nothing in particular. Guy’s reaction to her flight had not been what she had been hoping for. She felt devastated, and rejected. Tears coursed slowly down her little cheeks, and every so often she sniffed.

  Leonie went to sit beside her, putting a comforting arm around the trembling shoulders. “You’ve gone about it all the wrong way,” she said gently. “You’ve made him angry now, but part of his anger is due to the fact that you put yourself in such danger. He loves you very much, Stella, and I know that he wants you to come home again.”

  “No, he doesn’t. He just wants to be alone with her.”

  “You’re wrong. If you want to go home again, Stella, you’re going to have to be good. Continue
as you are at present and you’ll make things worse and worse and you’ll only punish yourself.”

  “Even if I’m good, that horrid Miss Hart won’t tell Uncle Guy the truth. Will she?” Stella looked shrewdly at Leonie. “I saw her with Imogen, and I know what Imogen’s asked her to do.”

  Leonie looked away, startled at the child’s perception.

  “There isn’t any point in my being good. They aren’t going to let Uncle Guy know, they’re going to see that I stay where I am.”

  “I’ll let him know the truth,” said Leonie suddenly. “I promise you that I will.”

  But Stella shook her head, tears filling her eyes again. “He doesn’t want me,” she whispered. “He won’t listen to you.”

  Leonie had no chance to say anything more, for at that moment Guy returned. “The carriage is at the door.” He wore the greatcoat she had seen him wear at the Grosvenor Chapel, and he was teasing on his leather gloves.

  Stella got up silently, looking accusingly at him. Then she slipped her little hand into Leonie’s, and they walked past him and down to the waiting carriage. It was very cold after the warmth of the library, and Stella huddled close to Leonie, her face averted from her uncle.

  The carriage drove slowly through the deserted Mayfair streets, and the fog swirled eerily all around, glowing with light now and then as they passed a streetlamp. Guy asked Stella to tell him exactly what had happened since he had left her at the seminary, and his face darkened when she reluctantly obliged. Stella hid her face then, huddling even closer, and in spite of the motion of the carriage, Leonie could feel how much she was trembling.

  At the seminary all was still in darkness. No one yet knew what had been happening. Miss Hart came hastily on being informed that Sir Guy de Lacey was demanding to see her immediately, and that his niece had managed to run away after all. She hurried into the vestibule, tying her robe over her voluminous nightgown. Her hair was tied in tight plaits beneath her floppy night bonnet, and in spite of her show of agitation and dismay, Leonie could see how sharp and clever her eyes were. “Sir Guy?” she cried. “Whatever has happened?”

  “My niece ran away tonight, madam,” he said coldly. “It seems that the entirely unsuitable guard you placed upon her proved as ineffectual as your damned punishment room. I don’t want to hear again that you’ve treated my niece so abominably, nor do I wish her to be placed with anyone other than Miss Conyngham. Is that clear?”

  Leonie looked at him in astonishment. He wanted Stella placed in her charge? Stella’s lips parted and her hand crept gladly into Leonie’s again.

  Miss Hart looked displeased. “Sir Guy, Miss Conyngham is a very junior member of staff, and as to my having treated Miss de Lacey abominably…well, I find such a suggestion totally unwarranted.”

  “Possibly you do, but I find what you’ve done so far to be little less than barbaric. Place my niece in Miss Conyngham’s charge, for if you do not then I will remove her, amid some rather unwelcome publicity. I’m sure you wish to avoid that.”

  Miss Hart’s cheeks paled a little. Unwelcome publicity and a risk to the seminary’s reputation were the very last thing she wanted. She’d given her word to Imogen that she’d make Stella’s stay at the seminary as difficult as possible, thus provoking the girl into continued bad behavior, but how could she still do that when faced with this threat from Guy? She had no option but to acquiesce to his demands, for the time being at least. “Very well, Sir Guy, Miss Conyngham will have sole charge of your niece.”

  “From this moment on,” he insisted.

  “Naturally.”

  He turned to Leonie then. “Forgive me for forcing this responsibility upon you, Miss Conyngham, but it is obvious to me that you are the one to look after her.”

  “I will be glad to, Sir Guy.”

  He smiled then. “Yes. I know,” he said softly.

  She looked quickly away, afraid that he might see how much that softness in his voice affected her.

  But he noticed nothing. He crouched down before Stella and put his hands on her arms. “Stella,” he said gently, “I want more than anything to have you home again, but you must give me proof that you want to live in harmony with both me and Imogen. There cannot be any other way, sweetheart, and I hope that you can understand that. I cannot turn from Imogen simply because you don’t like her. Besides, I’m sure that you’re wrong about her, and if you meet her halfway, she will be more than glad to welcome you.”

  Briefly Stella glanced up at Leonie, but then she nodded. “I understand, Uncle Guy.”

  “And you’ll try?”

  She didn’t reply.

  His hands dropped away and he straightened again, the disappointment clear in his eyes for a moment. Then he picked up his hat and gloves and left. Joseph closed the outer door behind him and almost immediately they heard the carriage driving away.

  Leonie turned to Miss Hart then. “Perhaps you will instruct Miss Ross that I am to stay with Stella from now on.”

  The headmistress’s cold eyes flashed. “Don’t give yourself airs and graces, Miss Conyngham, and don’t presume to order me around.” But she was in a cleft stick, and she knew it. Angrily she turned to Joseph. “Go to Miss Ross and tell her that she is to return immediately to her dormitory.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Joseph bowed, but his glance momentarily met Leonie’s. Behind Miss Hart’s back, he grinned.

  Chapter 17

  Several days later the long-promised snow began to fall, and just as the frost had been the longest in living memory, so was the snow the heaviest. It lay in a deep mantle over the land, and the streets and squares of London were choked with drifts. The thin ice on the Thames was covered with soft whiteness, and some of the smaller vessels moored upstream of London Bridge were frozen in.

  The fog had lifted the moment the snow began to fall, and now the air was clear and sharp. During the day the sun shone coldly down from a flawless sky, while at night a million stars glittered in a heaven as black as velvet.

  The beau monde found its life fleetingly checked by this latest vagary of the weather, but the moment the streets were cleared, society emerged once more to continue enjoying the winter round of soirees, assemblies, balls, and dinner parties.

  * * *

  Imogen was inevitably delayed in Windsor, but at last, after a difficult journey, she returned to Curzon Street, and that evening she and Guy attended a dinner party at Devonshire House.

  The evening had not gone well, for on her return from Windsor she had been hoping to see favorable results from her secret agreement with Miss Hart; she had been far from pleased to discover the turn events had actually taken during her absence. She disliked the understanding which seemed to have sprung up between Stella and Leonie, and she liked even less the fact that Leonie was now only too likely to have contact with Guy. Dwelling upon all this throughout dinner, she was not at her most amenable, and the atmosphere between herself and Guy was a little strained when they at last left Devonshire House to return to Curzon Street.

  They had Longhurst House to themselves, because Edward was temporarily out of town. Realizing that sulking was not achieving anything, she begged Guy to stay with her for a while and then instructed the butler to bring a bottle of iced champagne. She and Guy then sat in the firelit drawing room, he in a large armchair, she on the floor beside him, her head resting on his knee. The drawing room at Longhurst House was particularly beautiful, with vast mirrors and magnificent paintings on its gold brocade walls, and two intricate crystal chandeliers suspended from its decorative ceilings. The firelight flickered over red velvet chairs and sofas, and there was perfume in the air from the open potpourri jar in the hearth. Imogen’s pale pink gown was blushed to deep rose, and the diamond comb in her hair glittered and flashed in the moving light. The flames were reflected in her eyes as she gazed into the fire; it should have been a perfect moment, but it wasn’t, because she couldn’t set aside the instinctive unease she felt because of Guy’s dealings with Leon
ie. At last she could bear it no longer; she had to bring up the subject.

  “Why did you insist upon Leonie Conyngham having charge of Stella?”

  “Because she appears to have Stella’s regard.”

  “But she’s hardly qualified for such a responsibility!”

  “That isn’t the point in this instance.”

  “Oh?” She looked up at him. “What is the point then?”

  “I should have thought it was obvious.”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied a little acidly, “it’s perfectly obvious.”

  “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “Come now, Leonie Conyngham isn’t an experienced teacher, but she is rather attractive.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Am I to presume then that you suspect me of an ulterior motive where Leonie is concerned?” His tone was noticeably cool.

  “Well, you could have, couldn’t you? I mean, Rupert Allingham certainly had designs upon her before her disgrace.”

  “It’s hardly her disgrace,” he said shortly. “If blame must be placed anywhere, then Richard Conyngham appears to be the prime candidate.”

  “All right, it may not be her personal disgrace—what does it matter anyway? I was talking about Rupert’s considerable interest in her.”

  “May I remind you that I’m not Thornbury and that my interest in Leonie Conyngham is due solely to my concern for Stella’s welfare.” His tone was still cool, and a little irritated as well now.