Anne O'Brien – The Runaway Heiress (страница 3)
‘The young lady, my lord. Who accompanied you home last night.’ Webster carefully avoided looking in Aldeborough’s direction.
‘My God! I had forgotten. The kitchen wench. I remember remarkably little about the whole of last night!’ he admitted ruefully, running his fingers through his dishevelled hair. But enough of his memory returned like the kick of a stallion to fill his mind with horror. ‘Is she still here?’
‘Yes and no, my lord, in a manner of speaking.’ Webster kept the smile from his face.
Aldeborough frowned and then lifted a dark eloquent eyebrow.
‘Yes, she is still here, my lord. But, no, she is not a kitchen wench. She is quite unquestionably a lady.’
‘I see.’ There was a long pause. ‘I was drunk.’
‘Yes, my lord. Mrs Scott thought it best that the lady remain until you had risen. She was most intent on leaving the Priory, but had not the means.’
Aldeborough flung back the bedclothes, ignoring the clutches of his towering headache.
‘Thank you, Webster. I know I can always rely on you to impart bad news gently! Kindly tell—I can’t remember her name!—the young lady that I will have the pleasure of waiting on her in half an hour.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ and Webster shut the door quietly behind him.
Only a little after thirty minutes later the Marquis quietly opened the door into his library. In spite of the speed, he was immaculately turned out, from his impeccable buckskins to his superbly cut coat of dark blue superfine. His top boots were polished to glossy perfection and the arrangement of his cravat reflected the hand of a master. His hair was now brushed into a fashionable windswept disarray
At first it appeared to be empty, but then he saw that the lady awaiting him was seated at his desk in the window embrasure. Her back was to the light, the sun creating a golden halo round her dark hair. It made a pleasing picture surrounded as she was by polished wood, richly tooled leather volumes filling the shelves, heavy velvet curtains and Turkey carpets in deep reds and blues covering the floors. The furniture was old, acquired by earlier generations of Laffords, heavily carved oak chairs and sidetables with no pretence to elegance or fashion. A fire crackled and spat in the vast fireplace to give an air of warmth and welcome. It was his preferred room at the Priory and he rarely shared it with anyone. But now he was faced with an uncomfortable interview with a lady who had somehow involved him in a scandalous escapade that was none of his making. The lady’s face was in shadow, but he could see that she had borrowed a pen and was concentrating on a sheet of paper before her. As he watched, the lady, still unaware of his presence, and completely oblivious to the magnificence of her surroundings, threw the pen down with a despairing sigh and buried her face in her hands.
He closed the door quietly behind him and walked forward towards her. Hastily she raised her head and, with a guilty start, rose to her feet to stand slim and straight before him. Against his better judgement, he bowed slightly, and instantly regretted it.
‘Good morning, ma’am. I trust you slept well.’
‘Yes, my lord. Forgive me …’ she indicated the pen and paper ‘… I was only—’
Aldeborough shook his head and drew in his breath sharply. ‘My housekeeper has looked after you?’
‘She has been very kind.’
‘You have breakfasted, I trust?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
Aldeborough abandoned the banal in exasperation and some self-disgust. ‘Damnation, ma’am! This is a most unfortunate situation!’ He swung round to pace over to the windows, which opened onto the stone-flagged terrace, and stared out over the park with a heavy frown between his eyes. The silence stretched between them, but he could think of no constructive comment. He turned his head to see that she was still standing in the same place, very pale with faint shadows beneath her eyes and tension in every line of her body. And on her cheekbone flared the vivid discoloration of a bruise.
‘You are not Molly Bates,’ he accused her, the frown still in place. ‘My valet informed me that I had escorted a lady here last night and I see that he was quite correct. It is unfortunate that I did not come to the same conclusion before I allowed you to foist yourself on me! I confess that I remember little of what occurred last night with any clarity.’
‘Indeed, you warned me of that, sir.’
‘But … of course, I know who you are …’ his gaze focusing on the ugly wound marring her fair skin ‘… you are the wretched girl who showered glass and inferior port over everyone within ten feet of you!’
She made no reply, simply waited with downcast eyes for his next reaction.
‘So, if you are not Molly Bates, whoever she might be, who are you?’ He failed to hide his impatience at her lack of response to a potentially explosive situation.
‘I am Viscount Torrington’s niece, my lord.’
‘His niece? The heiress? I find that very difficult to believe.’ His eyes surveyed her slowly from head to foot, taking in every imperfection in her appearance. They were, Frances decided, as cold and predatory as those of the hunting falcon on his coat of arms.
‘It is true!’ Frances clenched her teeth, lifting her chin against the arrogant scrutiny. ‘Viscount Torrington is indeed my uncle. The fact that you thought I was one of the servants has nothing to do with it.’
‘You clearly have an excellent memory, ma’am.’
‘The entire episode is etched on my memory for ever, sir. I need hardly say I did not enjoy it.’ Her flat tones did nothing to hide the barely controlled emotion as the horror of the previous night reasserted itself. The memories flooded back.
As they did for the Marquis, in terrible clarity.
It must have been very late. Certainly after midnight. The fire had long since disintegrated into remnants of charred wood and ash and no one had thought to resurrect it from the pile of logs on the hearth. Candles flickered in the draughts, casting the far corners of the dining room at Torrington Hall into deep shadow, but failing to hide threadbare carpets and curtains and a general air of neglect. That is, if any of those present had been interested in his surroundings. Half a dozen men in various stages of inebriation and dishevelment were seated round the central table where the covers had been removed some time ago and empty bottles littered the surface, testimony to a hard drinking session.
They had spent a bone-chilling but successful day, hunting across Torrington’s acres, and had accepted an invitation from their host to eat at the Hall. They had dined meagrely—Torrington kept a poor table—but drunk deep so the company was past the stage of complaint. Lord Hay was asleep, his head slumped forward onto his folded arms. Sir John Masters studied his empty wine glass with the fixed intensity of a cat contemplating a tasty mouse. Sir Ambrose Dutton exchanged reminiscences of good runs over hard country with Torrington and his son, Charles Hanwell. The Marquis of Aldeborough, somewhat introspective, lounged completely at his ease in his chair, legs stretched out before him, booted ankles crossed. One hand was thrust deep into the pocket of his immaculate buckskin breeches, the other negligently twirled the stem of his wine glass, half-full of liquid that glinted ruby red in the guttering flames.
Burdened with a heavy tray of decanter and bottles, Frances entered the room in Akrill’s wake. She had no interest in the proceedings, in the affairs of the men who completely ignored her presence. Exhaustion from her long hours in the kitchen imprinted her delicate skin with a grey wash and she was still frozen into her own world of hopeless misery, resulting from the shattering plans for her future.
Torrington, eyes glittering, the candlelight etching deep lines of thwarted ambition on his ageing face, raised his hand to indicate a refill of the empty glass at his elbow. Akrill nodded. Frances lifted the decanter to carry it from sideboard to table where her uncle waited, arm still outstretched in demand. She reached his chair and leaned to pour liquid into his glass. To her horror, without warning, the heavy decanter slipped from her tired fingers to explode in a shower of crystal shards and vintage port at her feet, splashing herself and Torrington indiscriminately with blood-red drops.
He turned on her with the venom of a snake. ‘You clumsy fool, girl. Look what you’ve done. You’ll pay for this!’
He lashed out in frustrated anger, the back of his hand making contact with her cheek in a sharp slap that brought the room to silence. Frances flinched, silently, swallowing the sudden flash of pain, and would have retreated, but caught her heel in the worn carpet and fell amidst the sparkling ruin at Aldeborough’s feet. For a long moment, no one reacted, gripped by the exhibition of very public and casual cruelty, as Frances slowly pushed herself to her knees, hoping that the encroaching shadows would hide the worst of her embarrassment and humiliation. If she could only reach the door before her uncle drew any further attention to her …