“May I sit down?” he enquired.
“Yes, of course. Can I offer you some refreshment? I was about to eat my dinner but can delay it while we drink some wine together.”
“Perhaps we could eat our dinner together?” Lord Ninfield suggested, removing his greatcoat and laying it, together with his hat, on a table in the window.
“Are you staying here?” she asked for want of anything else to say.
“Now that I have found you, certainly – unless of course you have a strong objection to my taking a room in the same establishment.” He rose and pulled the bell.
“Not in the least,” she felt forced to answer although the truth was that she felt uncomfortable in the presence of the man to whom she had confided matters relating to her family which she wished now that she had kept to herself.
“It is dark outside,” he went on, “and is snowing hard. I thought it best to stop as I have no wish to find myself stuck in a drift in the middle of the night.”
“No, indeed.”
The waiter entered the room and took the order for wine from his lordship, although it was Honoria who had suggested it.
She said, endeavouring to take control of what she regarded as her territory, “His lordship is an acquaintance so I would be grateful if you could put back serving my dinner for half an hour or so, when we would like to eat together.” She spoke in English and then essayed a translation.
“Forgive me, may I be of assistance?” his lordship asked and, without waiting for a reply, launched into a torrent of fluent German.
“You speak German,” she observed pointlessly.
“Yes; I come this way from time to time as I have an aunt who lives in the region.”
“What is her name?” Honoria asked, struck by a sudden suspicion.
“Lady Angmering. In point of fact, she does not spend her entire life in Bavaria but travels back and forth with great frequency.”
“Fancy!” Honoria exclaimed, wondering if the Countess had written to her nephew to tell him where he could find an heiress in need of protection. She even wondered if her ladyship had faded out of the picture so that the nephew could step into her place.
Lord Ninfield busied himself with pouring the wine. As he handed Honoria a glass, he said, “I see you have put two and two together and come up with the obvious answer: yes, my aunt did write to tell me she had met you. I understand you told her that you had made my acquaintance at the assembly rooms.”
“Why?” she asked bluntly.
“You mentioned my name and she, knowing that I was familiar with this part of the world and that she would be obliged to abandon you at some point, thought that I could provide you with something of the protection which she had offered.”
“I suppose I should be grateful for her taking such an interest in me,” Honoria said a little coldly, “although I believe I would have preferred it if she had informed me of her plan before she executed it.”
“Having spent some time in your company and having formed an opinion of your likely attitude to her finding you a substitute protector, it would not astonish me if she thought it wise not to inform you of her intentions.”
“Hmn; in the circumstances, I am sure you will not take offence if I enquire the nature of your interest in me.”
His lordship looked almost relieved to be posed such a blunt question. He took a deep draught of his wine and directed an innocent look at her over the rim of the glass.
“There is nothing of which I am ashamed, Miss Ford: I have the usual sort of interest that a young-ish man might be expected to take in a pretty young woman. I was excessively taken with you the other night and, when my aunt wrote to tell me that you were travelling with her across Europe, I am afraid I immediately packed my bags and set off.”
“At her bidding?”
He did not speak for a moment, presumably wondering if he could avoid answering the question.
“Not precisely; it was, as I said, more of a suggestion; she was anxious about you travelling across Europe by yourself,” he answered evasively.
Honoria, not deceived, said with an unusual degree of sarcasm, “How kind of her. Should I be grateful, I wonder, or is she perhaps thinking more of you and your need of a fortune?”
The impertinence of this question caused a flush to rise in his lordship’s cheeks but he replied with no appreciable diminution in amiability, “Her partiality and her belief that it is time I settled down lead her to throw young ladies in my path from time to time.”
“I see. So I have run away from my cousin’s importunities only to be pursued – and caught - by you.”
“I mean you no harm and must beg your forgiveness for following you when I daresay you wished to escape from everyone you knew in England. In my defence, I called upon you the day after we met – together with my sister – hoping that you and your cousin Helen would visit us over Christmas. I found your family in a state of some confusion. Now I realise that they had only a few hours before my arrival discovered your absence.”
Honoria turned pale and said in a voice that trembled, “Did they tell you that I had gone?”
“Oh no; they were at pains to pretend that all was well; indeed, I had no suspicion at the time that you were not there. They told me you were unwell and, after spending a rather tense and uncomfortable half hour in the company of your cousins – your aunt was apparently abed, also unwell, and your uncle was from home – my sister and I left, much to their relief, I imagine.”
“My cousins? How did they seem to you?”
“Distracted. I did not, at the time, know what was behind their befuddlement; I assumed it was anxiety about their mother’s health which caused them to be what I can only describe as uncivil; they took little trouble to conceal their overriding desire to be rid of us and my sister and I left as soon as we decently could. Miss Lenham seemed vexed and could hardly bear to speak to her brother in a civil tone; he was irritable and clearly perturbed. I had thought, when I met him at the assembly rooms, that he was a somewhat hedonistic young man but the day after you disappeared – or perhaps the very same day for I suppose you left at dead of night – he had aged noticeably and found it difficult to speak coherently. I assumed, as I say, that this was on account of his mother’s illness; indeed, so extreme was his discomposure that I wondered whether she was on her deathbed.”
“She was not, was she?” Honoria asked on a gasp, shedding the haughty sarcasm of a moment before without a second thought.
“I do not think so, no. I think they had discovered your departure shortly before I arrived and were distraught on that account but, not wishing to divulge the true cause to a stranger, concealed the truth by exaggerating their parent’s infirmity.”
“Did they mention me?”
“Only to say that you were unwell. I suppose I thought that you and your aunt had both contracted a cold or some such and taken to your beds. I made nothing of it at the time but afterwards, particularly when I received my aunt’s letter, I realised what had been troubling them.”
“I see.”
Honoria was by no means convinced that her flight was the only explanation for her family’s discomposure. She knew – which he did not – that her aunt was much given to queer starts and had indeed been showing clear signs that she was already in the throes of one of her ‘turns’ when they had returned to the house from the assembly rooms. Her uncle’s absence was nothing in the least unusual but Lord Ninfield could hardly be expected to be familiar with the Lenhams’ behaviour. She did not know whether they had read her note at that point – or even whether they had found it. In any event, following the letter which she had written at the Countess’s bidding, she did not believe it likely that they were still anxious about her; they knew that she was – or had been – in the company of a respectable female and, while they might be annoyed that she had chosen to flee rather than fall in with their wishes, she firmly believed that irritation was more likely than anxiety to be the prevailing s
entiment.
“I should count it an honour if you would allow me to escort you the remainder of the way to Vienna where I can put you safely into the hands of Lord Waldron,” Lord Ninfield said after a lengthy silence.
“Did she tell you that was my intention?” she asked, beginning to feel hunted.
“She did not mention Waldron; she said only that you were on your way to Vienna and that, because she was going only as far as Würtzburg, she would be forced to allow you to continue alone. She hoped that I would be able to keep an eye on you.”
“How thoughtful of her,” Honoria repeated. “And how kind of you to come all this way merely to ‘keep an eye’ on me! Do you propose to drive behind me so that, if my carriage should cast a wheel or a band of ruffians jump out of a hedge and threaten me, you will be in a good position to rush to my defence?”
“I suppose I could do that if you object strongly to my sitting in the same vehicle. I had rather hoped that we could share a carriage. I understand my aunt furnished you with a maid but I cannot think her presence sufficient to ensure your safety. Because, like my aunt, I have travelled this way many times and speak most of the languages we will encounter, I believe I can be of assistance to you.”
“I daresay you can,” Honoria admitted for, the more he spoke, the more she began to trust him, just as she had in Tunbridge Wells.
Although she had at first shrunk from what she judged to be his condescension, she had that first evening softened towards him to such a degree that she had found herself hoping that he would, as promised, pursue the acquaintance. This evening she had had the same first impression, only this time she had felt suffocated by other people’s desire to manage her on the pretext that she was too young and inexperienced to make anything other than a complete hash of whatever plans she had formed. But, as before, his candour had breached her defences; he had made no attempt to deny that he had received her direction from his aunt or that he admired her. His kindness, if such it was, stemmed, she believed, from a simple wish for her company.
She saw his face brighten at this concession and was touched; it seemed she had the power to make him happy and, in doing so, she felt more optimistic than she had at any moment since she parted from the Countess.
“Is that case, may I take it that you will permit me to share your carriage tomorrow?”
“By all means; thank you.”
Over dinner he suggested that she lay off the travelling chaise which Lady Angmering had hired and proceed in his.
“Is yours your own?” she asked.
“Oh no; I am not so flush that I can afford to bring my own carriage, coachman and under-groom,” he replied lightly. “My aunt is not short of the ready and likes to travel in style, as you have no doubt discovered.”
“Indeed; in that case, why do you not lay yours off and continue in the one she hired; the coachman – who comes with it – has been told that he is to take me to Vienna and I fear that he might be disappointed – and indeed expect to be paid as far as Vienna even if he is not obliged to go the whole way.”
“Very well, if that is what you wish. I will put Black, my man, and your maid in mine. We would be uncomfortably crowded if we were to cram both of them in with us.”
The evening proceeded pleasantly; the dinner was, if not excellent and by no means of the standard to which Honoria had grown accustomed in Lady Angmering’s company, perfectly acceptable and very little was sent back to the kitchen.
After dinner they played a game of piquet, Lord Ninfield having come equipped with a couple of packs of playing cards.
“This is an agreeable way to spend an evening,” he said. “Did you play cards with my aunt?”
“Once or twice but I did not on any occasion succeed in beating her,” Honoria confessed.
He laughed. “I do not suppose she told you but she is a serious card player and at one time owned a gaming club in Berlin. She is up to all the tricks.”
“Are you saying she cheated?” she asked, shocked.
“Very likely.”
But, despite Honoria questioning him further, he refused to be drawn into any further discussion of his aunt.
Chapter 27
It was not until the Count and his guest were seated in a restaurant after the concert that they were able to continue their discussion on the upbringing of children. They had both enjoyed the music and, although von Krems had been noticed by one or two of his peers – and had indeed introduced his ‘old friend’, Mrs Morley, to a handful of persons – there had not, they both fondly believed, been a vast amount of speculation as to the length or depth of their friendship. Both, after all, were middle-aged and Mrs Morley, in spite of being unusually handsome, was clearly a fairly recently bereaved widow. There was nothing remarkable in such a pair attending a concert of serious music together.
“I should not have said what I did when I got into the carriage,” Cassie began, conscious that the atmosphere between her and her host had reverted to its default position of distant courtesy. It did not surprise her that nobody who had met them should infer anything warmer between them than might be expected between widowed acquaintances.
She had come to Vienna in order to be unremarkable and yet the truth was that she craved admiration and perhaps a degree of drama. She was therefore unable to resist making a further attempt to provoke the Count and could think of no subject other than his son about which she had any evidence that he felt strongly.
“Not having children of my own, I am in no position to comment upon their upbringing. Forgive me,” she continued when her words failed to provoke a response.
“I think your not having children of your own is the very thing which makes your judgment so valuable,” he replied warmly. “You speak from the heart. It is my impression that most people who do have children cannot resist sharing their own experiences – frequently in a somewhat didactic manner.”
She smiled. “I do not think that anything I have done would be much use in that respect although I daresay, if you were to ask my advice on the subject of choosing a mistress, I might strike you as overbearingly opinionated.”
“I should like to hear those opinions - if only to gain insight into your heart - but I am not looking for a mistress.”
“My heart has never been engaged so that consulting it would not be of much use to either of us,” she responded tartly.
“Never? Not even on that first occasion?”
“I own I did believe I loved him – with all my heart – and I have never got over his cruelty or desertion. I believed the experience had inoculated me against love for ever.”
“Believed?”
“Yes; and then my career, which aped in a peculiarly abhorrent way what I believe should be – perhaps even sometimes is – the deepest, most sublime expression of love between a man and a woman, was unlikely to foster the forming of attachments. I was obliged to pretend to sentiments which I did not feel; my last protector saw through my subterfuge and indeed commented on one occasion that art could never replace true feeling.”
“He sounds to have been a perspicacious gentleman.”
“He knew what love was although he did not feel it for me.”
“Does your ‘inoculation’, as you called it, still hold, do you think?”
The Count spoke so gravely that Cassie hardly knew what to make of the curious turn the conversation had taken, although she was aware that she had steered it that way and must now take the consequences. Whatever the demi-monde had been like, whatever she had been obliged to do in order to provide for herself and however ill-used she had felt, she had never been expected to speak of ‘love’ – and had not done so. She had spoken of ‘making love’ but that did not somehow seem to be quite the same thing as feeling it.
She said, trying to make light of his question, “I begin to think you and your son are more alike than I had previously given you credit for; it is not only your features which are mirrored in his but, now that you know something of my pa
st, you seem to feel as little compunction as he about questioning me on a subject which I had made sure would fill you with disgust.”
“I am sorry if you feel I am pressing you. It was you who offered to furnish me with the qualities I should be looking for in a mistress.”
“Ironically; it was not a serious offer - and you set me right at once by denying that you sought such a person. In any event, the qualities a gentleman might seek in a mistress are not, surely, related to love. You have asked me a question to which I do not – cannot - know the answer.”
“That is absurd! You are a human being and, so far as I am aware, we are all capable of falling in love, whether we have done so before or not. I suppose what I sought to know was whether you would welcome forming an attachment or whether you would seek to deny it on account of the wounds you sustained in the past.”
“It is impossible to imagine – or to remember with any great exactitude how I did feel all that time ago. What I recall more readily – what indeed I cannot forget - is the aftermath: the broken heart, the shattered hopes, the loss of my family, together with the realisation that they did not love me – or not enough, in any event, to make the least effort to understand what had happened to me or to take me back. Love itself – the sentiments I had for the man who abducted me – can best be described, I believe, as a form of madness and I own I do not wish to dwell upon them. I was humiliated and hurt beyond imagining. I shall not – will not – fall in love again.”
As she spoke she felt a huge rage. She had expected the Count to discard her the minute he knew of her past career and had been prepared for that. She had not been expecting this inquisition. Was he so naïve that he supposed a woman who had been obliged to make love to a quite horrifying number of men in order to put bread upon her table had experienced tender feelings towards these – for the most part – odious persons? It seemed to her that he was exploiting her historic sufferings for his own purposes and quite suddenly she could not bear another moment.
Honoria Or The Safety 0f The Frying Pan Page 22
