Kitabı oku: «Regency Rogues and Rakes», sayfa 28

Chapter Eight

Richmond-park is eight miles in circumference, and contains 2253 acres, of which scarcely one hundred are in this parish; there are 650 acres in Mortlake, 265 in Petersham, 230 in Putney, and the remainder in Kingston. The ground of this park is pleasingly diversified with hill and vale; it is ornamented also with a great number of very fine oaks and other plantations.

—Daniel Lysons, The Environs of London, 1810

Warford House

Saturday 6 June

Ill?” Adderley said. “It’s nothing … serious, I trust?”

Clara was as healthy as a horse. A cow. She was anything but weak or sickly.

“We hope it isn’t,” Lord Valentine said. “She might have caught a chill last night, at Great-Aunt Dora’s. Drafty old house. Wet night.”

“A chill,” Adderley said. He felt chilled, too. Gloom hung in the air of Warford House today.

More than the usual gloom, that was to say. He’d found the atmosphere frigid at best. Toward him Lady Warford had been strictly polite while contriving to look as though she smelled something good manners did not permit her to mention. Clara had started out warm enough—or as warm as she knew how—but had grown a little more distant every day.

Not that their feelings mattered. Clara had to marry him, and everybody knew it. They might kick all they wanted, and Lady Warford might lose no opportunity to remind him—with scrupulous politeness—of his low origins, but he was not going to go away, and they couldn’t let him go away.

The one thing he hadn’t reckoned on was Clara’s falling ill.

Gravely ill, judging by the signs.

Lord Valentine’s face was positively funereal.

Alarm stirred in Adderley’s gut.

She couldn’t die. Not before the wedding.

“Is there anything I can do?” he said.

Lord Valentine shook his head sadly. “Sorry. Nothing to be done. Our mother is with her. Hasn’t left her bedside.”

“You’ve sent for a physician, of course?”

“I assure you, my sister is being well looked after. I daresay she’ll be right as a trivet in a day or two.”

Lord Valentine did not say this with much conviction.

Anxious and angry, Adderley left.

He’d devoted months to cultivating her. Months he could have devoted to someone else.

She’d better not die.

It would be deuced inconvenient. He knew of no other well-dowered female who’d be nearly so easy to win over. And he’d have to win the alternate over in a hurry. His creditors wouldn’t even wait until the funeral.

By the time they were seated in the carriage again, Longmore was wondering what had possessed him last night, not to take advantage of a perfect opportunity.

It was the surprise, he decided. He’d been completely taken aback to discover Sophy was so inexperienced.

Normally, he rebounded quickly from shocks. But it had been a trying day. His sister had bolted, and it was the first time in years he’d needed to worry about her. Then Sophy had set herself on fire.

No wonder his wits had scattered.

After some tossing and turning—no doubt on account of his parts getting all primed for a woman for nothing—he’d slept well enough. The day had dawned fair. And his wits were back in working order. He could see the thing clearly now.

Perhaps she wasn’t greatly experienced. That didn’t mean she’d had none. She was French. She had taste. She was simply a discriminating girl who hadn’t had much practice in the amorous arts.

Someone was going to advance her education, one of these days. Why shouldn’t it be him?

True, he’d never had to teach anybody before, but there was a first time for everything, and he was always open to new experiences.

True, too, she’d told him to keep off.

But that was after.

Until he’d made the imbecile mistake of returning to his room, she’d been enthusiastic enough.

She’d greeted him cheerfully at breakfast today.

He saw nothing sulky or subdued in her appearance, certainly.

Today’s fashion extravaganza was a greyish-pinkish traveling dress. One of those capelike things women doted on these days spread itself over stupendously swollen sleeves. At the neck of the capelike item fluttered a collar of white lace, below which marched the line of bows, all the way down the front of the cape, which ended in a point below her waist—as though a man needed any directions there. The bows continued down two sides of the skirt, along an inverted V—yes, pointing to the same area. Today’s hat sported flowers all around the inner brim that framed her face, and more flowers sprouting up from the back. Green ribbons quivered among the flowers.

It made a man giddy, simply looking at it.

He preferred her mostly naked, but this was certainly entertaining.

Since the prospect of searching Richmond Park lay ahead of them, entertainment was sorely needed.

They’d scarcely left the inn when Fenwick, at the back of the carriage, started sniffing loudly.

Longmore glanced back. “You’d better not be sickening,” he said. “We haven’t time to nurse chills.”

“I was only smelling somefing,” Fenwick said.

Longmore scowled at him.

“Something,” Fenwick said. “What’s that smell?”

“What smell?” Longmore said. The only scent he was aware of was Sophy’s lavender and the something else that underlay it. He doubted that Fenwick, from his seat well behind the folded-down hood and the pile of luggage, could detect a fragrance that was more not there than there.

“I believe he means the air,” Sophy said. “That’s country air you smell, Fenwick.” She inhaled deeply, and her bosom rose and fell. It was easy to ascertain the degree of rise and fall because of the bows.

Undoing them was definitely something to look forward to.

What Sophy saw of Richmond Park appeared beautiful. Although city bred, she could understand the appeal of a broad expanse of nature, and this was an immense area, some five times as large as Hyde Park, Longmore had told her. She could easily imagine Lady Clara looking out from the summit of a hill and seeing London, a haze hanging over it, stretching out in the distance. She would feel she was a safe distance away from her troubles.

But she wasn’t safe. She hadn’t the first idea how to look after herself, and one maid wasn’t enough.

Since it wouldn’t help matters to let the world know an innocent was on the loose, the search team had to be careful what they said when questioning people. To avoid giving anybody else ideas of looking for Lady Clara, they’d devised a simple story: The cabriolet’s driver had left behind at an inn her pocketbook, containing a little money and some papers, and they were trying to return it.

They didn’t attempt to search the park itself. That would take days, Longmore said. Instead, they asked at the various hostelries near the gates. Even so, hours passed, and they’d made nearly a complete circuit of the park, as well as a detour to Richmond Hill, before they learned anything.

It was mid afternoon when they finally found an inn where Clara had stopped. There she’d asked for the best route to Hampton Court Palace.

“So much for hoping she’d return to London,” Longmore said, when they were on their way once more.

“At least we have news,” Sophy said.

“Yes. Back to the Portsmouth Road we go—after a prodigious wild goose chase. When I get my hands on her—”

“It’s so easy for you,” she said.

“Easy? What the devil do you mean?”

“If somebody offends or insults you, you punch him or call him out. If you’re wronged, you can act. What can your sister do?”

“She isn’t supposed to do anything. She’s a girl.”

“So she should simply endure? Has it occurred to you how humiliated she must feel? I’ll wager anything her so-called friends have been slyly tormenting her. How is she to strike back? It’s impossible. Meanwhile, she’s painfully aware that all the men who once admired and respected her now think she’s a dirty joke. Can you imagine how that feels?”

“Feelings,” he said in that mocking tone that made her want to punch him.

“Yes, feelings,” she said. “Why not? She can’t hit back. She can’t make them stop. It must have been horrible for her. And so she ran away. It was that or run mad, I don’t doubt. I’m worried about her, and I wish she hadn’t done it—but I have to admire her risking everything, rather than passively suffering.”

There was a long pause. She didn’t try to fill it, only looked straight ahead, waiting for her ire to die down.

Insensitive clodpoll. She knew she’d wasted her breath, but really it was too much—

“You admire her,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “She was brave.”

“Reckless is more like it. Stupidly reckless.”

“Like her brother.”

Another pause.

“You have a point,” he said.

The rant was a surprise, and it wasn’t the only one.

Longmore still hadn’t fully digested her astonishing speech about Clara when, a while later, as they were crossing the Thames again, Sophy spotted the old palace.

“Oh, how wonderful!” she cried out. “Oh, look!” She laughed, a throaty sound that tickled his ears and set off odd, warm feelings in his chest.

“I was about to say that Lucie would love this,” she said, “but I must be six years old, too, to be so excited.”

He looked at the sprawling building and back at her. “You’ve never seen Hampton Court Palace before?”

“When would I?” she said, still smiling. “My world’s been London, for three years. I’ll admit, it’s seemed large and interesting enough for me. But I’ve never been outside it.”

This was another Sophy altogether, an almost childlike Sophy. She practically bounced in her seat with excitement.

“No river jaunts?” he said.

“I own a shop,” she said. “It’s open six days a week. We’re at work from nine to nine.”

She worked longer than that, he realized: into the night and early morning, spying for Tom Foxe.

No time for pleasure jaunts into the country.

He’d never thought of that. Why should he? He’d never worked. He knew nothing about it.

Didn’t know much about his sister, either, apparently.

That was another surprise. He wasn’t sure his brain could contain any more of them.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” she said.

It certainly was.

“I’ve only to step out of the shop and look down St. James’s Street to see St. James’s Palace,” she said. “I know it’s from Tudor times as well. But it’s got buildings and streets around it. Carriages going back and forth. Omnibuses and carts and such. To me, it’s merely another building. It’s more or less the same with the other palaces. They all look grand enough but”—she made a sweeping gesture—”this sprawls over the countryside. It looks like a castle.”

“It’s one of the more decrepit ones,” Longmore said. “For ages none of our monarchs have wanted to live here. Not the present king. Not the last one or the one before. It’s bachelors and spinsters and war heroes’ widows …” He trailed off as comprehension dawned, finally.

Richmond Park. Hampton Court. Of course.

“Spinsters and widows?” Sophy said.

“In the grace and favor apartments,” he said. “Awarded to those who’ve served the Crown in some special way. Or whose fathers or husbands or brothers did. It’s mainly single women, mostly elderly. And I know why Clara came here.”

Though Longmore hadn’t called on his grandmother’s crony in a while, the palace officers recognized him. Yesterday they’d recognized his sister, too, as they quickly let him know, volunteering the information before he had to ask.

They must be wondering why Lady Durwich was so popular with the Fairfax family in recent days. Longmore let them wonder. He hurried Sophy through the maze of passages toward the grace and favor apartment Lady Durwich had occupied for the last twenty-five years.

That was to say, he tried to hurry Sophy. She wanted to gawk at the quaint old turrets and such and peer down passages into the courtyard. It was like trying to lead a child along.

“One would think you’d never seen a lot of crumbling Tudor brick before,” he said.

“I own a shop,” she said.

“Right,” he said. “Six days. Nine to nine.”

“Sometimes one of us would take Lucie to the zoo or to Astley’s Amphitheater or to a fair or such. But we’ve never made a day’s jaunt outside of London. This is so interesting. Lucie would love it.”

“Well, then, Clevedon ought to take her sometime while the rest of you are blowing up your competition,” Longmore said. “Today we haven’t time for a tour. I’ll take you at another time. There are some fine paintings and statues, and the gardens are agreeably odd. But for now, the only sight for us is Lady Durwich.”

“I understand,” she said.

“Don’t play any parts,” he said. “For this you have to be yourself.”

“A dressmaker?” she said.

“Lady Durwich is a thousand years old,” he said. “I doubt there’s anything left on earth that can shock her. Still, I’m an old-fashioned fellow—”

“Backward, I’d say.”

“And a little shy—”

“That’s the first thing I noticed about you,” she said. “Your shyness. When you burst into the Duke of Clevedon’s house ranting about—”

“Quite shy, in fact about introducing you to my grandmother’s friend as my chère amie—most especially when you’re not.” A fraction of a pause. “Yet.”

“And never will be, but I can pretend so beautifully you’ll believe it’s true,” she said.

“The point is, I can’t deal with her and an imaginary female at the same time.”

She considered. “You’re right,” she said.

Not very long thereafter, a manservant ushered them into Lady Durwich’s drawing room.

The dear old thing had acquired a few more wrinkles and shrunk somewhat, but she was remarkably well preserved, considering she was in the region of ninety. She’d always been the plump, comfortable sort, not in the least high-strung—the antithesis of his mother—and today she was as well-groomed as always. Once upon a time, she and Grandmother Warford had formed, with the Dowager Countess of Hargate and some others, one of London’s most dashing sets.

“Longmore, I haven’t seen you this age,” she said, putting out her plump, beringed hand, which he gallantly kissed. “Your family has been unusually busy visiting lately. Clara yesterday. But that’s why you’ve come, of course. She told me she’d bolted, the silly chit. I told her to go straight home. What nonsense! ‘Doesn’t love him,’ she says. She should have thought of that before she went out to the terrace and allowed him to take liberties. Really, I was amazed. I always thought Clara had more sense—” Her sharp brown gaze fell on Sophy. “But who’s this?”

The old lady took up her quizzing glass and made a slow inventory of his companion, from the top of the ridiculous hat to the toes of her stunningly impractical silk half-boots. “Looks familiar—but not one of you, I know. No Fairfax, this one.”

“No, indeed, Lady Durwich. Please allow me to present Miss Noirot, a famous dressmaker.”

Sophy sank into an excessive curtsey, exactly like the one she’d treated Valentine to—ribbons and bows fluttering and flowers quivering.

“My, my, one seldom sees that anymore,” said Lady Durwich as Sophy rose. “A dressmaker, is it? What do you call that color, Miss Noirot?”

“Cendre de rose, my lady.”

“Pink ash?” he said.

Both women gave him the same what-a-moron look.

“Miss Noirot is Clara’s dressmaker,” Longmore said. “She’s deeply worried about Clara’s trousseau.”

“Stop talking rubbish,” said the old lady. “I know it’s difficult for you, but make an effort. I haven’t a great deal of time left to waste—ten or twenty years at most. Perhaps it would be better to let the young woman speak for herself.” She let the quizzing glass fall to her lap and bent a bright, expectant gaze upon Sophy.

“Not to put too fine a point on it, my lady, it occurred to me that Lord Longmore, for all his many fine qualities—”

“Oh, you’ve discovered some, have you?” he said.

“For all his many fine qualities,” Sophy went on, with a little toss of her head, which set the ribbons fluttering. “For instance, a prodigious uppercut, an air of command, and excellent tailoring. These are merely a few examples. In these and many other matters, one cannot fault his lordship. However, I believe it is not unreasonable to declare him less than overburdened with the gifts of tact and persuasion. I strongly suspect Lady Clara will need a good deal of persuasion.”

“You may well think so,” said Lady Durwich. “I began to believe she was all about in the attic.”

A maidservant entered then, with tea. A hiatus followed, while Lady Durwich performed as hostess. Though they had no time to lose, Longmore supposed that the lady didn’t often have guests—or young ones, at any rate. Though he was wild to get his information and be gone, he knew it would be churlish to hurry matters.

The trouble was, she found Sophy much more interesting than Clara’s difficulties. And no wonder, with Sophy pouring on the charm.

When Lady Durwich, making small talk over tea and sandwiches, asked if she’d toured the palace before, Sophy instantly reverted from sophisticated French milliner to excited English girl.

“Lord Longmore could barely get me to move along,” she said. “I kept stopping and gaping like the veriest child. How wonderful it must be for you, to live here. I hadn’t realized anybody did—that is, apart from the staff, you know.”

“Good heavens, where has the girl been?” said Lady Durwich. “You’d never heard of the grace and favor apartments?”

“Miss Noirot lived in Paris until quite recently,” Longmore said. “She’s rather French.”

“My parents were English,” Sophy said. “But yes, I spent the better part of my growing-up time in Paris. I’m a city bumpkin, you see.”

“Miss Noirot has told me this is the first time she’s ever been so far from London since she came,” Longmore said.

“And now that I’ve seen the countryside, I wonder at Lady Clara’s temerity, in driving out on her own,” Sophy said. “The roads are all well enough, but one must stop to eat, and deal with ostlers and such. One must pay the tolls at the gates, and be careful not to make a wrong turning. It isn’t at all like traveling about London. She must have felt desperate, indeed, to run away.”

“She always was a headstrong girl,” Lady Durwich said. “People think she isn’t.”

“The angelic beauty,” Longmore said. “Her beaus write the most idiotish poems about her. Don’t know her at all.”

“They underestimate her,” Sophy said. “Because she’s so beautiful, they think she can’t have any brains.”

“She’s a woman,” Longmore said. “What does she need brains for?”

“For dealing with men who haven’t any,” Sophy said. “It isn’t easy.” She reverted to Lady Durwich.

“Perhaps, my lady, if you would tell me as much as you can recall of your conversation, we might find a clue to her intentions.”

This was going to take forever.

Longmore left his chair, and went to the window. Since the apartment comprised an extensive set of rooms on the ground floor, and this window looked north into the court through which they’d come, he hadn’t much of a view to distract him: a cobblestone walkway below and rose brick walls climbing another three stories and blocking the daylight.

Old ladies were garrulous and forgetful. They rarely told a tale in its proper order, instead taking detours here, there, and everywhere. In a few hours the light would be gone. Still, he and Sophy could travel by night, as long as the weather didn’t betray them again.

He listened as well as he could to the women’s conversation.

No easy job. His mind wanted to wander into twisted byways and nooks and crannies, like the ones in this, the oldest part of the palace.

He thought about his sister and what Sophy had said about her. That hadn’t been pleasant.

He thought about Sophy’s hair streaming down her back, and over her breasts, the long locks curling and turning gold as they dried … the outlines of her breasts under the thin muslin nightdress … the outlines of her thighs … the place between them, the triangle he knew would be dusted with gold.

That was much more agreeable.

Still, he felt stifled. The room was too cozy and warm. The apartments in Hampton Court were notoriously ramshackle, dark, and dank. Her ladyship had a fire going, against the damp. The accumulated bric-a-brac of decades filled the place. Behind him the women’s voices were low as they conversed like old friends.

He was of no use here, obviously. He might as well go out. While the females gossiped, he could question the officers. He could find Fenwick and get his report. He’d just decided to excuse himself, when Lady Durwich cried, “But there! I knew you looked familiar. Now I have it! Those eyes. Those are DeLucey eyes. I’d know them anywhere.”

Sophy was aware of Longmore turning away from the window, his gaze sharpening.

She smiled politely at Lady Durwich. “Your ladyship is not the first to say so.”

“And small wonder,” said the old lady. “One doesn’t forget those eyes. It took me a moment, though, to recall the connection. But the previous Earl of Mandeville was a great friend of my husband’s, you know. And then there was Eugenia, the Dowager Lady Hargate. Her eldest son, Rathbourne, married a girl from the cadet branch—the wild set. Lady Rathbourne’s daughter was a great favorite of Eugenia’s. I saw the girl at Eugenia’s funeral. You recall meeting Lady Lisle, do you not, Longmore? Pretty red-haired girl. Are those not the DeLucey eyes?”

His expression changed very little but it was enough for Sophy. She noticed the slight widening of his dark eyes and the change in his stance: a degree more alert, like a wolf catching a scent.

“Ah, yes, the wild set of DeLuceys,” Sophy said, her voice amused. “I’ve been told that most of them lived abroad. It’s not entirely impossible that one of my ancestors was born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

From the time they’d arrived in London, she and her sisters had been aware of the risk they ran. Marcelline could get by easily, having taken after Papa. But Sophy and Leonie had inherited Mama’s DeLucey eyes, and those large, vividly blue eyes were, as even a lady near or in her ninth decade could see, all too distinctive.

The “wild set” of the DeLuceys—more commonly known in England as the Dreadful DeLuceys—were still, and with good reason, mistrusted at best, loathed at worst. Marcelline, Sophy, and Leonie were the last of the lot, so far as they knew. The cholera had killed everybody else.

“Most of us could say the same,” Lady Durwich said. But she took up her quizzing glass and scrutinized Sophy again. Sophy met the scrutiny calmly. She’d had years of practice playing cards—not to mention waiting on extremely trying customers.