by Louise Allen
‘It might have been forgotten, if it were not for the fact that, once abroad, Mr Ashley rapidly set about losing what innocence was left to him, along with any shreds of his reputation,’ Trimble said in a voice scrupulously free from any expression. ‘The learned journals were only too happy to publish his writings from exotic parts of the world—but his late lordship used to read me stories from the scandal sheets with great glee. Not all Mr Ashley’s explorations were of a scholarly nature.’
‘What sort of stories?’ Lina asked, not wanting to know and yet drawn with the same terrible curiosity that made a carriage crash impossible to ignore. Harems again?
‘I could not possibly recount them to an unmarried lady,’ the butler said. ‘Suffice it to say that they make Lord Byron’s exploits seem tame.’
‘So he is not so safe, after all?’ She was fearful, and she knew that she should be, but a shameful inner excitement was fluttering inside her, too. Fool, she admonished herself. Just because he is not a fat lecher with bulging eyes it does not mean that he could not accomplish your ruin just as effectively and twice as ruthlessly.
‘I have every confidence that, in his own home and where an unmarried lady under his protection is concerned, we need have no fears about his lordship’s honourable behaviour,’ Trimble pronounced. Was he certain, or was he, a loyal family servant, unable to believe the worst of his new master?
At least I need have no fear for my reputation, being under his protection, for the world already believes me to be a whore and a jewel thief, Lina thought bitterly. It had taken a while, in the friendly comfort of The Blue Door, for the truth to dawn on her, but by taking refuge in a brothel, she had as comprehensively ruined herself as her mother had—and without having committed any indiscretion in the first place. But what of my virtue? Should she lock her door at night?
‘Thank you for confiding in me, Trimble,’ she said with what she thought was passable composure. The doorbell rang. ‘That will be Mr Havers, I have no doubt.’ She had no intention of being seen by the lawyer, a man who might be expected to receive the London newspapers daily and who doubtless studied the reports of crimes with professional interest. A description of the fugitive Celina Shelley would have been in all of them, she was sure.
The butler went out, leaving her shaken and prey to some disturbing imaginings. It was one thing to find herself in a house with a man who looked like the hero of a lurid novel, quite another to discover that he had the reputation to match and was probably as much villain as hero. Last night she must have been mad to exchange banter with him, to try out her inexpert flirtation technique. It was like a mouse laying a crumb of cheese between the cat’s paws and expecting it not to take mouse and cheese both in one mouthful. How he must have laughed at her behind that polite mask.
Trimble appeared in the doorway. ‘His lordship has requested that the household assemble immediately in the dining room to hear the will read, Miss Haddon.’
‘He cannot mean me.’ Lina stayed where she was. ‘I have no possible interest in the document. It is none of my business.’
‘He said everyone, Miss Haddon.’
‘Very well.’ Perhaps she could slip in at the back and sit behind Peter, the largest of the footmen. Provided she could feel safe and unseen, then it would be interesting to hear Lord Dreycott’s no doubt eccentric dispositions, she reflected, as she followed the butler’s black-clad back, slipping into the dining room behind him. Yes, there was a seat, shielded by the footmen and the epergne on the end of the sideboard.
Lina settled herself where she could just catch a glimpse of Lord Dreycott, Gregor standing impassively behind his chair. He was drumming his fingers very slowly on the table in front of him and looking across at the portrait of his great-uncle. Lina realised that the faint smile on his lips echoed the painted mouth exactly. It was a very expressive mouth, she thought, wondering if Ashley could school it into immobility when he was playing cards. Unbidden, her imagination presented her with the image of those lips on her fingers, her wrist.
She clasped her hands together so tightly her nails bit into her palms. She must not think of…
‘If everyone is here,’ said a brisk masculine voice, ‘then I will read the last will and testament of Simon Augustus Tremayne Ashley, third Baron Dreycott. To Henry Trimble, in recognition of many long years of loyal and invaluable service, the lifetime occupancy of Covert Cottage, a pension of seventy pounds a year, whichever items of clothing of mine he cares to take, unlimited fuel and game from the estate, the services of the garden staff for the maintenance of his grounds and the stuffed bear which he has always admired.’
Lina could see the back of Trimble’s neck growing red, whether from emotion or the thought of the stuffed bear—she imagined that was a joke between his old master and himself—she was not certain.
‘To Mary Eliza Bishop, in recognition…’
And so it went on, legacies both generous and eccentric to all the indoor and outdoor staff, even the boot boy. A donation to the church, To replace the cracked tenor bell, which has for so long rendered my Sunday mornings hideous. One hundred pounds to the charity for the widows of fishermen lost along this stretch of coast. Some books to fellow scholars and finally, All that remaining of my possessions and estate not elsewhere disposed of in this document, to my great-nephew and heir Jonathan Quinn Ashley.
‘There is, however, a codicil dated five weeks ago.’ The lawyer cleared his throat. ‘To the lady currently a guest in my house; residence at Dreycott Park, with all her expenses met, for the period of six months from the date of my death and, at that date, the sum of one thousand pounds absolutely, in memory of the great affection I bear to her aunt.
‘And I further instruct that my great-nephew Jonathan Quinn Ashley shall only inherit my books, maps, papers, parchments and documents provided that he retains full ownership of Dreycott Hall for a period of not less than six months or until he completes the editing and publication of my memoirs which I leave unfinished, whichever is the later. Should this condition not be met then all those papers, books, etc. etc. will pass to the Ashmolean Library, Oxford, absolutely.
‘That concludes the will.’ There was a crackling of thick paper as Mr Havers folded the document.
Chapter Four
Lina stared up at the enigmatically smiling portrait, stunned. Sanctuary and money beyond her wildest dreams, enough for an independent start whenever she chose to take it, the last generous gift from an old man who had the imagination and compassion to reach out to a total stranger and the generosity to commemorate an old friendship—or an old love. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘Can this be broken?’ Quinn Ashley’s voice was utterly devoid of any amusement now. ‘I have no intention of retaining this house and estate any longer than it takes me to pack up the books and papers and place it on the market.’
‘No, my lord, it cannot be broken,’ the lawyer said with the firmness of a man who had confronted many an angry heir in the course of his career. ‘The late Lord Dreycott consulted me most carefully to ensure that was the case, as he anticipated your objections. I should further point out that, as the lady has the option to remain here for six months, you will be unable to place this estate on the market until she chooses to leave, whatever your wishes to the contrary.
‘Now, if I might ask for the use of a room to interview each of the beneficiaries, I can settle most of the practical issues during the course of the day, my lord.’
‘Use the study,’ Ashley said. ‘I will discuss this further with you there now, if you would be so good.’ Despite the distance between them Lina could see that he had his face completely under control, but he could not keep the anger out of his eyes. He met her scrutiny and she felt as though she had just turned the key to imprison a tiger in a cage. The horizontal bars of the chair-back dug into her spine as she pressed herself against them in instinctive retreat.
Then self-preservation took over from her worries about what Lord Dreyco
tt might think of her now. She had to face the lawyer and he would want her name. Her heart pounding, Lina got up, ducked through the service door at the back of the dining room and hurried to the stairs.
‘What the hell was the old devil thinking of?’ Quinn demanded as the study door closed behind them.
‘Ensuring that his memoirs are published, my lord,’ Mr Havers said. ‘I believe your great-uncle felt they might be overlooked for some years if you were at liberty to fit them in with your doubtless demanding programme of travels and your own writing.’ He shuffled the papers into various piles on the long table against the wall, obviously indifferent to the fact that his news had set Quinn’s plans for half the year on their head.
‘And what is this nonsense with the girl? Is she the reason the estate cannot be sold for six months?’ Quinn asked. ‘Is she his natural daughter? She has no look of him.’
‘I think it unlikely. I believe this is a quite genuine gesture in memory of his past attachment to her aunt. What is the young lady’s name? Lord Dreycott was curiously reluctant to give it to me.’
‘Haddon.’
Havers made a note. ‘I am sorry, my lord. But I am afraid you are encumbered with this estate, and Miss Haddon, for the term of six months at a minimum, or you forfeit the library.’
Quinn placed his hands flat on the desk and leaned on them, staring down at the worn red morocco leather surface. He had intended selling up the estate, moving everything he wanted to retain to his town house and settling down to establish himself in London. There was pleasurable anticipation in combining a sensible business move with the prospect of a long-awaited revenge on polite society.
He had perfectly respectable reasons to transfer his centre of operations from Constantinople to London—respectable motives to do with trade and scholarship. Now he would have to divide his attention between this easterly parish on the shore, his uncle’s memoirs and his real focus in London.
It was infuriating, but he knew when to yield to superior force. Great-Uncle Simon’s tactics were, as always, masterly. There was no benefit exhausting himself and his temper in an attempt to get around the will; he was stuck with Dreycott Park until the autumn. And he was stuck with the responsibility for a nervous, flirtatious and puzzling young woman as well. He supposed he could just leave her here to keep the place in order for six months.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Quinn said once he had his frustration under control. An outburst of temper would do no good. ‘Feel free to use the desk, Havers. Who do you want first?’
‘Miss Haddon, I think. Thank you, my lord.’
Celina was sitting on one of the hard chairs in the empty hall, her hands in her lap, her back straight. The apron had gone and she had enveloped her blonde hair in a thick black snood. She looked even more like an occupant of a nunnery than before.
She stood up when she saw him, her expression wary. As well it might be, he thought. What am I going to do with you? The option of simply leaving her here to run the house lost savour. His body stirred; it knew exactly what it wanted to do.
‘Havers will see you first, Celina.’
‘I am very sorry, my lord,’ she said as though he had not spoken.
‘For what?’ He was in no mood to be conciliatory.
‘For the fact that you cannot carry out your intentions, for the burden of my presence and for the diminution of your inheritance by the legacy to me.’
That sounded like a prepared speech. ‘The money is in no way an issue, Celina. It was my uncle’s to do with as he pleased and your presence in the household is no burden. If I appear less than pleased with my uncle’s dispositions, it is because of the disruption to my plans.’ And the unaccustomed experience of having my own will thwarted, if truth be told, he added mentally.
It was salutary, after years of doing what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, to find himself constrained in this way just when he had resolved on a course of action. It was almost as though the old devil had second-guessed him and set out to throw a barrier in his path. Old Simon had been too cynical, and too unconventional, to worry about his own reputation and he would not have wanted Quinn thinking to avenge the slight on his good name.
‘Thank you. It is generous of you to reassure me,’ she said, her voice colourless. ‘It will be uncomfortable for you here, if your neighbours will not call.’ She was flushed now, her eyes, as usual, cast down. ‘Trimble told me about the scandal. It is very shocking that a young man could be treated in such a way.’
‘You believe me the innocent party, then?’ Quinn found himself irritated that her answer mattered.
‘Of course.’ She sounded almost sure, he thought grimly. Not certain, though. How very wise of her. ‘Trimble would not lie about something like that.’ But she thinks I might? ‘It was very honourable of you not to reveal the true parentage of her child.’
He shrugged. It had been romantic wrong-headedness and a wounded heart more than any loftier motive, he suspected, looking back now at his young self. ‘That must have been a source of pride to you,’ she added, laying one hand on his sleeve as though trying to offer comfort
‘I was a romantic young idiot,’ Quinn said. The shuttered gaze lifted a fraction and he knew she was watching him sidelong from beneath her lids. ‘That did not last long. Do not delude yourself that I am some sort of saint, Celina. The high-flown moral stance persisted just as long as it took me to discover the delights of the flesh well away from English double standards.’
Her pale hand was still on his forearm. He looked down at her bent head, the sweep of dark lashes against her cheek, the faint quiver of her fingers, the tender skin below her ear. The scent she wore, subtle and sophisticated and unexpected, teased his nostrils and his pulse kicked in recognition of her unconscious allure.
Or was it unconscious? he wondered. She had the grooming, the elegance, the little mannerisms of a woman used to pleasing men for a living. And yet, there was the apprehension in her eyes when she did permit them to meet his fleetingly, her lack of sophistication with wine, her retreats into shy propriety. A mystery, and Quinn enjoyed a mystery. And one involving contact with a pretty woman was even more enticing. He had six months to tease the truth out of her. As he thought it, he realised that he was not going to just take himself off to London and abandon her here. He wanted her.
He lifted her hand from his arm and raised it to his lips, just touching the tips of her fingers, letting his breath caress her. She stiffened and gave a little gasp, but he kept his attention on the pampered hand, the carefully manicured and buffed nails, the faint smell of expensive hand lotion. Celina cared for her skin like a courtesan, not a housekeeper.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked abruptly. But she did not pull her hand away.
‘You will hear some torrid tales from our respectable neighbours, I have no doubt. I thought it better that I warn you.’
‘I see,’ Celina said. ‘I do trust you, Ashley.’
That was like a jab in the stomach. He did not intend for her to trust him, he wanted to tease and intrigue her for sport, but if she truly trusted him then he should honour that. And perhaps he would—she was under his roof, under his protection. She might even be the innocent virgin she would have him believe.
‘I did not say you should trust me,’ he said, wanting to unsettle her, to pay her back for unsettling him. Her head came up and those wide blue eyes looked into his as though she was inspecting the inside of his soul—always assuming she could find it. ‘I simply wanted to set the record straight over that piece of history.’
‘Of course.’ The intense scrutiny dropped. ‘As always, it is for the woman to take care and it is upon the woman that the shame devolves if she is not vigilant enough of her honour. Excuse me, my lord. Mr Havers will be waiting.’
The brush of her silk skirts across his legs as she turned had Quinn gritting his teeth as a sudden stab of lust took him unawares. He pulled open the front door and strode off to the stables
, more angry with himself for even troubling about Celina than he was at her plain speaking.
Lina had been watching his profile: the flexible mouth, the strong, straight nose that was almost too long, the thin scar that was visible now the stubble was gone, the hooded green eyes, the elegant whorl of one ear. He had seemed relaxed, as though he was telling her the plot of some novel, not his own story of disillusion, disgrace and sin. She did not believe in his detachment. Quinn Ashley was an excellent actor, but he had to be deeply frustrated by what had just happened—any man would be.
Then he had kissed her fingertips and the scent of him, sandalwood and angry, tense male, had filled her nostrils and she had been unable to snatch her hand away. A more experienced woman would have known how to extricate herself, but she had been left there, gauche and enraptured. When Quinn turned back to face her and she saw the look in his eyes she could see he was not relaxed. Not at all.
I did not say you should trust me. The smile had reached his eyes with those words. A smile and something else, something assessing and male and dangerous. In letting him take her hand, in confessing her trust, she had yielded to him and that had stirred some animal instinct in him.
Idiot, she scolded herself as she tapped on the study door and let herself in. He attracted and fascinated her and that was lethally dangerous. One brush of his lips on her hand and she was disorientated, disconcerted and breathless. It was worse than the wine.
‘Miss Haddon.’ The lawyer rose to his feet. ‘Please, be seated. This should not take long.’
Lina sat down and folded her hands in her lap, trying her best to look like a meek young lady and not a fugitive courtesan. With her hair invisible, her eyebrows and lashes, which were naturally darker, gave the impression that she was a brunette. Surely there would be nothing to spark Mr Havers’s suspicions, even if he had read her description in the newspapers?
