Kitabı oku: «The Outrageous Belle Marchmain», sayfa 2

And what if I were delicate? Belle bit back the retort, knowing it was ridiculous to expect Edward ever to see her as anything other than his capable, shrewd-headed older sister. But she had to think. This could be disastrous.

Adam Davenant was after Edward, not her. But her shop, her own small savings—would they be implicated? Would everything she had worked so hard for since her husband’s death be lost?

For a moment sheer panic clawed at her chest. Somehow she fought it down and forced herself to say calmly, ‘Is there any possibility that Mr Davenant will let you pay this sum back gradually, month by month?’

‘Good God, I doubt it. He’s a grasping wretch, Belle!’ As Edward distractedly pushed his dark hair back from his forehead, he unintentionally laid bare the old, white scar that puckered the skin there. ‘He’s told me I’ve got to bring the money to his house in Mayfair within the week or he’ll press charges. Damn it, if I had it, I’d hang it round the necks of a few sheep and get them herded up the steps of his fancy house.’

Belle briefly rested her forehead in her hand.

‘You’ll help me, won’t you?’ Edward pleaded. ‘Charlotte. Our home. The new baby … I can’t go to prison, Belle. I can’t …’

Belle had always been aware that the once-renowned Somerset estate of the Hathersleigh family had, thanks to the profligacy of successive generations, dwindled to very little—unlike, unfortunately, the aspirations of its title-holders.

She’d also had to face up to the fact that her own prospects were bleak when her husband died five years ago in one of Wellington’s final campaigns of the war. She’d had to make harsh choices: either to move in with Edward at Hathersleigh Manor, or to earn her own living. In fact, imposing herself on Edward never seriously crossed her mind and the idea of being a governess or companion horrified her. Certain offers she’d received from so-called gentlemen repelled her even more.

Then inspiration had come. She had always been a talented seamstress and was fascinated by the women’s fashions that ebbed and flowed like the long Napoleonic wars, so—in the face of her brother’s disapproval—she’d decided to open a dress shop in London.

Her designs were bold and eyecatching. Outrageous, some of the ton’s older matrons were heard to intone witheringly. Her shop, though small, was well situated in the Strand, and she and Gabby lived in the two rooms above it. Soon she’d begun to attract customers who were tired of soft pastels and wanted something different, but she was by no means making a fortune. She was lucky if her own rent and bills were paid every quarter day. How on earth could she deal with Edward’s debts?

Now, as the candles flickered around the bright silks and satins in this little shop, which she felt sick at the thought of losing, she looked at her brother steadily and said, ‘There’s no point in my even asking the amount of your debt to Mr Davenant, Edward, for I know I won’t be able to pay it. But I will go and see him for you.’

‘Go and see him?’ Her brother was astonished. ‘And then what? I’m damned if you’ll grovel on my behalf in front of that—that nouveau-riche upstart!’

A flash of anger darkened Belle’s eyes. ‘I have never grovelled in my life. I will simply explain that you realise you have made a grave error—’

Edward jumped up, about to protest, but something in Belle’s steady gaze made him clamp his lips together and sit down again.

‘That you’ve made a grave error,’ she repeated, ‘and would be grateful if Mr Davenant would accept your word of honour that your debts will be paid off steadily over—what? Three years, Edward?’

He looked sullen now, a little boy again. ‘Three years! I suppose so. Times are hard, though Davenant’s thriving, blast the fellow …’

‘I shall go and see him,’ said Belle quietly. ‘And I’ll let you know how I get on.’

He got up to pace to and fro, nodding. ‘Very well. And put on some charm, eh? Come to think of it, Belle, a second marriage for you, to some rich fellow—not Davenant, of course, God forbid—could be the answer for both of us. You’re really not at all bad-looking, if you’d just make an effort not to frighten the fellows off with those startling clothes and that sharp tongue of yours.’

This time, there was an edge of ice in her voice. ‘Let me assure you I have absolutely no intention of getting married again. Ever.’

Her brother shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll stay on in town for a week or so at Grillon’s, so you can let me know there when it’s all sorted with Davenant, can’t you?’ He started putting on his hat, checking his reflection in the mirror.

‘Edward,’ Belle said suddenly. ‘You’re not going to visit any of the gambling dens, are you?’

He swung round. ‘Gambling dens? Never. And thanks for this, Belle. Some day I’ll return the favour.’

Breezily Edward let himself out. Belle sat with her hands frozen in her lap, immobile.

Gabby came in rather hesitantly. ‘Are you free, madame? I wanted to tell you that there was a little trouble earlier.’

Belle’s heart sank anew. ‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Jenny told me about it. It appears that when you and I were measuring Lady Tindall in the back workshop for her new gown, a customer came in and complained about a cuff that was loose on a pelisse she bought last week.’

‘What did Jenny do?’

‘She mended it there and then, and the customer left—but she was so unpleasant, Jenny said! And she declared she would not be using our shop in the future!’

‘Well, it sounds as if we’re better off without her,’ Belle soothed and Gabby went off, looking happier, to tidy the workroom. Originally from Paris, the lively French girl had come to Belle’s notice when she’d advertised for an assistant seamstress and Gabby had proved invaluable, good both with the customers and with the two girls Belle also employed.

In addition, it did no harm that Matt was smitten by Gabby—honest, stolid Matt Bellamy, who worked most of the time at his brother’s stables just down the road, but was a joiner by trade. Belle had hired him to fit out her shop and he continued to do odd jobs for her. Though Gabby teased Matt outrageously, Belle could see that secretly Matt adored her.

Together against the world, Belle and her staff were a good team. But—Edward. Her brother had flushed with anger when she’d mentioned gambling dens, yet Belle couldn’t help remembering that when he’d first come into his inheritance the lure of the gaming parlours had pulled him time and time again to London.

Marriage to Charlotte had at least cured her brother of that particular weakness. But trouble was still lurking, clearly. In fact, Belle felt that nothing had been quite right in her life since she’d clashed with the forbidding quarryman on Sawle Down. Just the thought of that encounter sent ripples of unease through her.

Stay away from me! she’d lashed out at him. Why had she been so rude, so hateful to him? Because he was clad so roughly? Because he was employed by Mr Davenant?

She’d never even met Davenant, but one thing was for sure. If he ever learned of the insults she’d uttered about him that day, then she and Edward were finished for good.

Chapter Three

London—four days later

Adam Davenant had issued the invitations to the meeting at his house in Clarges Street only yesterday, but despite the short notice every single person had come and he was under no illusions as to why. Quite a few of them had never visited his Mayfair mansion, and they would all be desperate to get inside and assess his wealth.

Greeting them, he’d cynically noted how their eyes leapt out on stalks as they registered the expensive if discreet furnishings. The number of liveried servants. The superb wine and food on offer. Everything was perfect; it damned well had to be when people were all too keen to rake up your lowly origins.

Though the plentiful wine was perhaps a mistake, Adam decided as the boasting grew louder amongst the rich and ruthless men who’d gathered to feed on the cold repast set out on the vast table in his first-floor dining room. When the boasting began to turn to bickering, Adam knew it was time to start the real business of the day. He rose to his feet at the head of the table and, as was his way, stated his case bluntly.

‘In Somerset there’s stone to be quarried that’s as good for building, gentlemen, as any in the world. With London expanding so rapidly there’s a never-ending market, and all of us—whether landholders or business investors—stand to gain. But the issue I wish to discuss today is—transport.’

Adam was dressed impeccably in black with a snow-white, plain cravat and he made an imposing figure. Though not yet thirty, he carried the authority of a man who was accustomed to power.

He carried the authority of money.

All eyes were on him as he turned to point to the large map hung on the wall behind him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he went on, in the polished voice in which there was no trace of his grandfather’s west country vowels. ‘What we need is a railway to convey this fine new stone from the Somerset quarries to the Avon canal and thence by water to London.’

‘There are railways already, Davenant,’ someone called out.

‘You mean tramways for trucks, pulled by horses or powered by gravity,’ replied Adam. ‘I’m talking about a steam railway. All of us with goods to transport from Bath to London—not just stone, but farm produce and manufactured goods, too—would benefit. The carrying times would be halved and the profits doubled.’

Already several men were nodding and murmuring agreement. But Lord Rupert Jarvis—who had, Adam noted, been eating and drinking steadily since he arrived—was sneering openly. ‘You mean your profits doubled, Davenant. Not mine.’

The blond-haired Jarvis, as well as possessing large estates in Somerset, owned a big haulage business with networks of carriages and teams of horses all across the south of England. Known to be a cruel master of both men and beasts, Jarvis saw the emergence of the railways as the coming of Satan.

Adam countered him with icy calmness. ‘There’s still room for all forms of transport, Lord Jarvis. But we cannot ignore the chances that steam offers. Some of you will already know that the Yorkshire mine owner Charles Brandling has been using steam engines to carry his coal to the ports for years. I’m proposing that each of us become shareholders in this new Somerset railway. And apart from the profit motive, we’ll all be aware, I’m sure, that a railway would spare our men and horses much hard labour.’

‘Siding with the workers, Davenant? They’re damned lucky to have jobs,’ said the sleekly dressed, coldly handsome Jarvis crudely. ‘If they aren’t up to it, tell ‘em to get their wives or brats to help out. That’s what I do.’ He looked challengingly round at the assembled company.

‘I’m sure you do,’ said Adam. His chiselled face was expressionless, but his grey eyes were hard as granite. A tense silence had fallen.

Jarvis leaned back in his chair. ‘Show us your route, Davenant,’ he said challengingly. ‘Doubtless you’ve got it all worked out.’

Adam turned and pointed to his map. ‘Here’s the city of Bath, with the stone quarries to the south and the River Avon flowing close by. And here—’ he pointed again ‘—is the canal that links the Avon to the Thames, offering seventy miles of navigable waterway. You’ll see that the most practical route for a new railway would be from Monkton Sawle straight to the canal as it runs south, just before it swings east out of Somerset.’

There were murmurs and nods of assent. Then Jarvis, who’d been demolishing another portion of venison pie, cut in, ‘I suppose you realise you’ll need to cross my land for the last half-mile of your proposed railway?’

‘In order to reach the canal at Limpley Stoke, yes, I would need to cross your land,’ said Adam. ‘Just as I’d need the consent of the other landholders gathered here today who would be affected. It’s in all our interests, beyond doubt.’

‘Like hell it is,’ growled Jarvis, wiping pastry crumbs off his lips. ‘And I’ve listened to enough of this. I’m off, to another more interesting appointment.’

Adam politely indicated the plate on which stood the remainder of the venison pie. ‘Certainly. But I would hate you to leave hungry. Shall I ask one of the servants to wrap up the rest of that pie so you can take it with you?’

There was a stunned silence. Then someone chuckled and began to applaud; Jarvis’s appetite for a free meal was well known.

Jarvis pushed back his chair angrily. ‘Damn you, Davenant,’ he muttered and hurried from the room, letting the door slam behind him.

Some of the others spoke up then. ‘I’m with you, Adam,’ said Tobias Bartlett firmly.

‘And me.’ ‘Yes, you can count me in on your scheme, Davenant.’ More pledges of support echoed round the room.

But there was still the problem of damned Jarvis; the big map made it all too clear that Jarvis’s acres of land at Limpley Stoke barred the most direct route between Adam’s quarry and the canal. Any other route would add miles to the journey.

‘It’s not as if Jarvis makes much use of that land anyway,’ Adam’s friend Bartlett was grumbling. ‘And surely he realises he could expect a hefty share of your profits if he negotiated with you?’

‘I don’t think,’ said Adam softly, ‘that Jarvis’s motive is based on thoughts of profit.’

Siding with the workers, Davenant? Jarvis had sneered.

Well, sometimes Adam wished he and Jarvis could resolve their differences like common workmen—with their fists. Then he would knock Jarvis’s block off.

He looked thoughtfully down at his strong hands. As a boy at Eton, Adam had briefly been taunted with Miner Tom’s name—until he’d pummelled the sneers from his rash tormentors’ faces. On coming into his fortune he’d learnt to fend off his detractors in equally efficient ways. Both in his manners and attire he was unpretentious but faultless, never letting his cool façade slip. Being mighty rich he was happily accepted by most of society, especially by those who had daughters to marry off.

Jarvis, despite his oily good looks and title, was secretly despised by the ton for his coarse behaviour. If it wasn’t for his damned land, Adam would have been happy to cut him dead—or thump him.

A young housemaid came in just then with more good wine from Adam’s cellars. Adam didn’t partake—he didn’t enjoy fuddling his wits—but went instead to join the group who’d gone to pore again over the map of Somerset.

‘If Jarvis won’t give way, Adam,’ a Somerset neighbour was suggesting, ‘you could take the railway down the valley to Midford then head north—see?—to skirt his estates for the last mile. As I said, I would happily sell some land to you in return for some shares in the project.’

Adam was heartened that so many of these men were, like him, all for progress. ‘We’ll manage without Jarvis somehow,’ he said. ‘Though if we do head north, we’ll have to blast some of the higher contours out of the way, here, and here …’

‘It’ll be worth it,’ said another Somerset landowner eagerly. ‘Davenant, you mentioned the coal mines in the north-east; I’ve heard rumours that Stephenson up in Stockton is planning to transport people as well as coal on his railways! Steam is the future, and this scheme of yours gets my backing, if only to take the sneer off Jarvis’s face. The way he treats his men and his horses is despicable. Thank God he left early, is all I can say. We can make some progress now, Adam … Adam?’

‘Hmm?’

It didn’t happen often, but Adam, by the window, was temporarily distracted. In fact, he couldn’t take his eyes off a remarkably shabby carriage that had just pulled up at the far end of Clarges Street, from which a woman was getting out; a woman wearing a big straw hat and dressed in a startling ensemble of turquoise and pink as striking on her pert figure as icing on a festive cake. She was probably an expensive courtesan, Adam decided, hired by one of his wealthy neighbours for an afternoon of bed sport. Shrugging, he turned back to his guests—then paused again.

Something about her looked familiar. The way she stepped proudly out of that ridiculous carriage. The slenderness of her waist, outlined by her short pink jacket; the swell of her deliciously trim derrière as she stood on tiptoe to say something to her coachman …

She reminded him of that woman on Sawle Down.

The memory made his breathing hitch. She’d insulted him to kingdom come—and he’d stood there and taken it from her! When what he should have done—the thought occurred to him time after time, usually at damnably inconvenient moments like now—was take her in his arms. Hold her close. Drown out those defiant protests of hers with a kiss …

Definitely time to get back to his guests, and his railway.

It was Belle, and she was standing on the pavement at the far end of Clarges Street, arguing with Matt. ‘This will do, Matt!’ she announced firmly after letting herself out. ‘I can walk the rest of the way, I assure you.’

Matt Bellamy, up on his seat, frowned down at her. ‘Here, Mrs Marchmain? But we’re not quite there yet.’

I know, thought Belle tightly. And no way on earth am I going to risk allowing Mr Davenant or his servants to see me arriving in this rickety old coach.

She’d tried already to shut the carriage door, but failed; now she tried again. Blast, it was nearly falling off its hinges.

She’d hoped to make an impression arriving outside Mr Davenant’s house and had asked Matt to borrow something suitable from his brother’s stables. But when Matt had turned up outside her shop at half-past two with this, Belle had been secretly horrified.

And the door still wouldn’t shut. She tried again; this time the handle came off in her hand. Somehow she rammed it back. Matt had jumped down now from the driver’s seat to hold the horses and was simply gaping at the four-storeyed, cream-stuccoed dwellings that surrounded them.

Belle resisted the same impulse to let her own jaw drop. She’d known, of course, that Davenant dwelt in the most exclusive part of London. But the thought of confronting him in one of these magnificent mansions made her heart quail with in her.

It was four days since Edward had called at her shop with his dire news. She’d written twice to Davenant requesting an appointment and heard precisely nothing, so she’d decided there was no alternative but to confront him in his lair. Sternly quelling her apprehension, she’d dressed appropriately and left her shop in Gabrielle’s capable hands.

Of course, appropriate wouldn’t be the word most people would use for her twill silk gown of turquoise and pink or her snug-fitting pink jacket. Appropriate didn’t perhaps apply to her large straw hat adorned with turquoise satin ribbons. Oh, dear. When she’d put on the outfit she’d felt full of confidence. But now she was feeling rather sick.

Davenant’s grandfather made the family fortunes from tin mining, she remembered Edward saying scornfully. But as she gazed down Clarges Street, she felt her breath catch in her throat because the miner’s grandson had done rather well for himself.

Still standing by the rickety coach, she smoothed the sleeves of her jacket, adjusted her straw bonnet and emphasised to Matt a little too brightly, ‘This will most definitely do, Matt. Return the vehicle, will you? I shan’t be wanting you again.’

Big Matt set his face obstinately. ‘Don’t seem right, Mrs Marchmain, leaving you here alone, callin’ on an unknown gentleman.’

Belle very much wanted to say crisply to Matt and to anyone else within hearing, ‘Believe me, Adam Davenant is no gentleman!’ But that would simply make poor Matt even more anxious; so instead she retorted, ‘Matt, I’m a twenty-seven-year-old widow and, as you see, I’m at no risk whatsoever in a neighbourhood like this. There is absolutely no need for you to stay. Besides,’ she added in a moment of inspiration, ‘Gabby will be expecting you. You promised her you’d fix that loose counter in the workshop today, remember?’

As she spoke she was horribly conscious that halfway down Clarges Street a couple of liveried footmen stood on the steps of the biggest house of them all, gossiping in the sun. She’d been aware for some time that the footmen were staring in her direction and felt newly embarrassed by the scruffy equipage and the presence of loyal Matt in his ancient greatcoat and battered hat.

‘Won’t you want escortin’ home afterwards, ma’am?’ frowned Matt.

‘I shall walk,’ Belle announced. ‘I shall enjoy the fresh air.’

‘But …’

Just then the door handle fell off again; she kicked it under the carriage. ‘Matt!’ she hissed. ‘Please—just go!’

Matt, his burly visage expressive, heaved himself back on to the driving seat. Belle found herself urging his departure under her breath rather frantically. Then, lifting her head high, she set off down Clarges Street. The footmen watched her as she drew nearer.

She knew it. She knew, before she reached them.

They were outside Adam Davenant’s house. They were his footmen. Oh, drat and botheration. And they had seen everything; the ancient carriage, Matt, herself kicking the blasted door handle out of sight …

They had sprung to attention, stiff-faced, their arms straight at their sides, but Belle had seen a hint of malicious humour in their eyes.

‘Is this Mr Davenant’s house?’ she asked crisply.

‘This is Mr Davenant’s residence—ma’am.’

‘Then I wish to speak to him, if you please. And before you ask, I have not an appointment, though I have written to him twice informing him that—that it is in his interests to see me.’

The footman’s lips pursed. ‘Mr Davenant happens to have company.’

‘Then I will wait.’

The impudent scoundrel almost sniffed. ‘Very well, madam. I will take you to await Mr Davenant’s convenience.’

‘But …’ Belle bit her lip. She didn’t exactly have a choice, did she? He held the door open; she sailed inside.

Oh, my. This place was incredible. Her entire shop would fit inside this lofty hallway, with its huge chandeliers and sweeping staircase. Money from mining and quarrying, she reminded herself steadily. Money from other men’s back-breaking toil.

The footman—who she reckoned might stop breathing soon if he lifted his nose any higher in disdain—ushered her along the vast hallway to a room that led off it, pointed her inside, then disappeared, closing the door rather firmly on her as he left.

She was too agitated to notice much, beyond the fact that she could hear the sounds of loud male talk and laughter from upstairs. Would the sneering footman trouble to deliver her message? Would the hateful Mr Davenant even bother to leave his rowdy companions and grant her a few minutes’ audience? She paced to and fro. This had to be one of her stupidest ideas ever.

Suddenly she heard a man’s bellow of rage from out in the hallway, then the pattering of feet and the sounds of a girl sobbing. Just as she turned towards the door it burst open and a young maidservant tottered in, clearly in a state of some distress. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

The maid saw Belle. ‘Oh! I beg pardon, miss, I’m sure!’ Knuckling the tears from her eyes, the girl was already turning to hurry away, but Belle grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘What is it, my dear?’

The girl, in her white cap and apron, was shaking. ‘Nothin’. It’s nothin’, miss …’ She hurried out again into the hall, Belle following. But the girl stopped with a low cry when she saw, from the other direction, an extravagantly dressed, fair-haired man prowling towards her with an unpleasant smile on his face. ‘Now, what’s all this, missy?’ he said to the cowering maid. ‘I thought we were having a pleasant conversation. Not trying to run from me, are you?’

This time it was Belle who let out a gasp of shock. She knew this smooth-tongued aristocrat whom some would call handsome. Her stomach clenched. Dear God, if this man was a friend of Davenant’s, things were even worse than she’d thought.

Belle said to the young maid quickly, ‘I will see to this. Go, now.’ The maid scurried off, still sobbing. The man lurched closer—clearly he had been drinking, she could smell it. He was staring down at her. ‘By God. Mrs Marchmain. Well, isn’t this a happy coincidence?’

Belle held her chin high. Loathsome, loathsome man. ‘Not for me, Lord Jarvis, I assure you.’

At first Jarvis scowled. ‘I see your pride is still as damned lofty as ever …’ Then he began to laugh—a bitter, ugly sound. His pale blue eyes were assessing her greedily. ‘Hold a minute. Now, let me think. Here you are, in Davenant’s house—can it be that my money wasn’t enough to tempt you, but Davenant’s is?’

He laid his hand on her shoulder and let it slide to her breast. Belle’s stomach heaved as she knocked it away.

‘You disgust me, my lord,’ she breathed. ‘You did when we last met and not a thing has changed—’

‘What the deuce is going on?’

The man’s voice came from the wide staircase above them. Jarvis jumped away from Belle and looked up angrily at the speaker. ‘Davenant. Damn it, I’d no idea you were there …’

Belle looked up, too. And with this second shock she felt so dizzy that her ribs ached with the need for air. No. Impossible. Please …

The newcomer scarcely glanced at her. It was on Jarvis that his iron gaze rested as he came steadily down the stairs; he was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the sober perfection of black tailcoat and pristine white neckcloth.

He said to Jarvis, ‘I thought you were on your way out a while ago.’

‘And so I was,’ declared Jarvis furiously. ‘Until I was delayed, by an encounter with this woman here.’

‘Not true,’ breathed Belle.

‘Oh, it is true. She insulted me, Davenant, damn it!’

Belle thought she’d been prepared for almost anything. But not for the fact that Adam Davenant, her brother’s enemy, was the man on Sawle Down into whose ears she’d poured insult after insult.

Desperate hope rose in her breast. He might not remember me. He might not recognise me …

Lord Jarvis did though, all too well; Jarvis was still glaring at her, and to him she said as steadily as she could, ‘You claim I insulted you, Lord Jarvis. All I did was tell you to stop pursuing that serving girl because you were frightening her out of her wits.’ Belle met his glare squarely, though she truly wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

‘I’ll escort you to the door, Jarvis,’ she heard Davenant saying.

The two men were moving away from her along the hall; she saw Jarvis pausing by the open doorway, still muttering angrily to Davenant, jabbing his finger in her direction. Dear God, she could just imagine what foul lies he’d be concocting.

‘Good day to you, Jarvis,’ Davenant was saying.

Jarvis gave a swift nod. ‘Good day to you, Davenant. We’ll speak soon, I’ve no doubt.’ The footman closed the door after him and Adam Davenant was coming back towards her. The footman hadn’t bothered to ask her name; there was a chance, just a chance she might still somehow be able to wriggle out of this …

‘Well,’ Mr Davenant said softly. ‘So we meet again, Mrs Marchmain.’

Her last hope died.