Elizabeth Rolls – A Scandalous Liaison (страница 2)

That was what he was telling himself, anyway. He took another look at the worshipping nymph, and his body hardened. But he’d written back, suggesting terms for the commission and omitting all mention of their falling out, only writing politely at the end that he “hoped they were both well?”

Even now the memory of Loveday Trehearne shamed him. An endless regret for youthful, selfish folly. Mention her name in a letter to her brother he would not. Especially in a letter over this particular commission.

Lionel’s reply had dealt only with the commission, agreeing to his terms with one stipulation: their only contact should be by letter. Payment for the work should be made directly to an account at Hoare’s Bank. There would be no meeting. Which suggested that Loveday was still with him.

Evelyn turned back to the murals. The blocking was done. He owed Lionel money, which had to be paid before the actual painting would commence. And the sooner it was done, the sooner Lionel could finish the paintings and Evelyn could move back into the family mansion.

He ought not to be here. No contact. So why the devil, having bribed the shopkeeper for the address, was he standing in the rain on the Strand at the entrance to Little Frenchman’s Yard, about to break that agreement? He’d paid the money owed at Hoare’s. There was no possible reason for him to be here. Except…

He just wanted to see Lionel, dammit. Nothing else. Perhaps make amends. He wasn’t going to dishonor himself again. Although judging by the dank, malodorous passage that led into the yard, it seemed unlikely that Loveday was still with Lionel. He would never have permitted his sister to live in a place like this. She could have married, or…Married. Evelyn forced his suddenly clenched fists to relax. It was none of his business if Loveday had married. He was considering a betrothal himself. Not that he’d met Miss Angaston yet, but delicate approaches had been made by his aunts to the lady’s family. It was considered an excellent match by all concerned. Her wealth and beauty, his wealth and title. It was the sort of marriage he was expected to make; that had been dinned into him from childhood. In his world marriage was made for social advancement, for wealth, for convenience, to oblige one’s family. He had never questioned that. He recalled his father’s calm voice; suggesting possible brides, but assuring Evelyn that there was no hurry…that if he wished to sow a few wild oats first, it was perfectly understandable…It had all made perfect sense at the time. It was the way of the world.

But his father had been gone for four years now. At twenty-eight, even without his aunts’ less-than-subtle prodding, he knew that it was time to settle down. He had woken several months earlier, on his birthday, with a mouth like the bottom of a birdcage, and had wondered who the stranger in the mirror might be, and if he even liked him. He had responsibilities, people who depended on him; in short, he’d grown up.

Now…Evelyn hesitated at the mouth of the passage. Something down there was snoring. His nose wrinkled at the sourness oozing from the passage. Six years ago Lionel Trehearne had lived in a decent set of rooms in Bloomsbury, with Loveday to keep house for him. Nothing fancy, but they had been comfortable on Lionel’s earnings as a painter. Why was Lionel now living down here? Evelyn stepped into the darkness and, as his eyes adjusted, realized that the snoring came from a bundle of rags and newspaper at the far end.

Trying not to breathe deeply, he traversed the passage with its damp walls. Stepping over the snoring bundle and its reek of gin, he came out into the yard. Hemmed on all sides by shabby buildings that leaned on each other in haphazard support, with just that one passage leading in, the yard seemed to repel what little damp, gray light was left in the day. Hard to imagine that even in the blaze of high noon the place would be anything but dank and drear. In the dying light of a rainy day it breathed despair.

A boy watched from the mouth of an open door. As Evelyn approached, dull eyes sharpened with wariness.

He stopped. “Good afternoon. I’m looking for Lionel Trehearne.”

The child shrugged.

A battle-torn ginger cat slunk past, jaws weighed down by a rat nearly its own size.

Narrowing his gaze Evelyn slid his hand into his coat pocket and jingled a few coins. “That your tongue the cat’s got?”

A shake of the head. A flicker of what might be humor in the eyes. “Nah. Ut be a rat. Big un.”

“So it is,” said Evelyn. “And you can talk. Now—Mr Trehearne?” He jingled the coins again.

Straightening, the child pointed to a door over the passage, reached by rickety steps. “Up there. Leastways, I s’pose that’s who yeh mean. Nowt else here for a toff like you.”

Evelyn flipped a shilling piece to the boy. “Thank you.”

The coin vanished, snatched in midair and tucked away in the putrid rags.

Evelyn mounted the steps warily. They were just as rickety as they looked. Every one creaked in protest and he tested each tread, keeping his weight to the sides, telling himself that the structure would probably survive a few more minutes.

The door at the top was as makeshift as the staircase. He knocked, hoping that Lionel would let him speak before flinging him straight back down the stairs. Listening, he waited, and eventually heard soft footfalls on the other side.

Then “Who is it?”

His stomach plummeted. Not the baritone rumble he’d expected. Not even a male voice. Soft, musical, the light cadences fell sweetly in a familiar pattern. Words thickened on his tongue, unformed like his thoughts. Yet one word, one thought, cut crystal bright.

Loveday.

One thought twisted clear of the tangle…and with it, anger.

“It’s me—Evelyn. Open the door.”

A bolt scraped back and the door opened.

“I see six years have not robbed you of one iota of charm,” said Loveday Trehearne.

For a moment all he could do was stare at the woman in the misshapen doorway, and try to reconcile her with the girl he remembered. Long-lidded tawny eyes, the red-gold hair, the firm chin. A small, reddened hand came up in an achingly familiar gesture to push back an errant curl.

So much the same…and yet where the golden eyes had once held the joy and bubble of laughing innocence there was the hard edge of wariness, and with it something darker—despair? Where once her bright curls had been bundled into a loose knot with bits forever escaping, now it was confined severely—just that one shorter lock tumbling down to tempt a man’s fingers. And her mouth, once so soft and quick to smile, looked as though it had forgotten what a smile was.

“Dammit, Loveday,” he said, stepping past her. “What in Hades is Lionel about, bringing you to this…dump!”

Her eyes sharpened to blazing daggers. “Did I invite you in, my lord?”

The icy tones slashed deep, touching hurts he’d rather forget.

“If you didn’t intend to invite me in, why open the door?” he demanded. And wanted to bite his tongue out. This was Loveday, and she had every right to want his hide for a hearth rug.

Her fists clenched, and her mouth flattened. “Good question. Easier to push you down the stairs with the door open, do you think?”

He dragged in a breath and forced a lid on the roiling ferment within. He had deserved that.

“I’m sorry. All right? I never meant to hurt you!”

“You didn’t mean anything!”

Lord! Where had that frozen whip come from?

“I made a mistake. I never should have touched you.”

“You made a mistake?” Her teeth were clenched, eyes narrowed., “How unfortunate for you.” And as quickly, the blaze was extinguished in a cool smile. “You were told not to come here. That was part of the agreement, as I recall.”

“Did you make that stipulation?”

She shrugged. “Why would that make a difference?”

It shouldn’t.

“Where is he? Lionel made good money as a painter. Judging by the sketches he sent me, he still could. Why are you living like this?”

The delicate brows rose. “Like what? In squalor? Fashions change, my lord. In art…as well as women.”

“Don’t do that!”

“What? Stop speaking the truth?”

“Stop ‘my lording’ me as though I were a stranger!” He fought down hurt and anger. “For God’s sake, Loveday—let me help you. Let me give you some money. I can—”

“No!” It burst from her.

“Dammit, Loveday! It’s just money. It doesn’t mean anything!”

Her lip curled. “Easy to say when you’ve plenty of it. Anyway, money for what? Money for what we did six years ago?”

Money for…His hands balled to fists as her meaning slammed home, and the cool speculation in her eyes scored deep. He closed his eyes, reaching for control.

Opening them again, he found her still watching, her face a mask. His own control shredded, he gritted his teeth against the rising tide of fury…and saw, really saw, the stacked canvases around the dingy room.

“Paintings,” he heard himself say.

“I beg your pardon.”

No, that should be his line, but the blank mask had at least been replaced with a puzzled frown.

“I’ll buy paintings.” Surely if he bought enough paintings it would help Lionel get her out of this…this hell without trampling their pride in the mud. Without making her feel that she had been paid off like a whore, albeit belatedly.