Undesirable Liaison (14 page)

‘When I have
done with my schoolwork, though,’ added Belinda, entering a caveat,
‘for I know Flo won’t let me leave my books.’ With a look both
mischievous and vengeful cast at Florence.

The dowager
frowned. ‘What books? What do you read?’

Belinda made a
face. ‘Oh, all manner of subjects. For my part, they are mostly
unnecessary, but Flo will have it I will secure a better post if I
am well educated. Not that I mind French, but it is a great bore to
be wasting time on such stuff as the globes and historical
treatises.’

‘Oh dear me,
yes, a great bore,’ agreed Lady Langriville. There was diffidence
in her tone as she added, ‘Should you find it less of a bore if you
were to read some of it to me? I speak a little French, you know,
and perhaps it might be of use to you to practice. You could tell
me of your nose and hair and—and so forth in French.’

Too
surprised—and, if the truth be told, not a little
chagrined—Florence knew not how to counter such an invitation.
What, was the dowager offering to teach Bel? Or was it merely a
cunning method to get her own way?

Bel, after a
moment’s stunned silence, approved the scheme. ‘I dare say I
wouldn’t mind it so much. But I can’t be talking French forever,
and I refuse to read stuff to you all day long.’

It was too
much. ‘Belinda,
will
you show a little conduct?’

‘Well, but she
asked me,’ objected Bel.

‘And you have
only to thank her ladyship and agree to do as she asks. Besides, I
am sure Lady Langriville will not desire you to be prancing round
her all day.’

‘Oh, but I
should,’ cut in the dowager, in a tone firmer than any Florence had
yet heard her use. ‘And I would so much prefer it if Belinda will
speak to me just as she chooses.’

‘You might,
ma’am,’ retorted Flo, ‘but I would not. How is she to learn her
place if she is permitted to speak as she chooses? I beg you not to
encourage her. I am perfectly ready to permit her to spend time
with you, if that is your wish. Even, since you make a point of it,
to partake of one or two lessons in your company. But she will, at
all times, behave with propriety and politeness. I cannot otherwise
agree to it, ma’am.’

She had spoken
in a flurried fashion, but now she realised the dowager was gazing
at her in that abstracted way of hers, almost as if she was seeing
her companion properly for the first time. It came home to Flo that
she had allowed her agitation to overcome the correct deferential
manner she had hitherto shown to her ladyship. Lord above, when
would she learn to keep her tongue? It was all Belinda’s fault!

But that young
lady, showing, for once in her life, a little thoughtfulness, came
out in support of her sister.

‘Poor Flo is
bound to say that, ma’am. She has charge of me, you see, and
anything I do wrong must be laid to her account. Oh, Flossie, don’t
fret. I will mind my tongue, truly. And if Lady Langriville is so
kind as to help me with my reading, I am sure I will do far better
than I can on my own.’

Florence felt
powerless to argue further. She could only make a mental vow that
if the doubtful company of Belinda did not prove beneficial to her
ladyship, she would have to put her foot down. It was at least
encouraging there was some hope of improving the dowager’s
condition, even if it was not directly attributable to the presence
of her companion.

‘I am so glad
you fell through the hedge at my feet,’ said Lady Langriville to
Belinda, clinching the matter.

The smile that
accompanied the words transformed the thin features. Flo had not
the heart to dash the elder lady’s newfound pleasure, whatever her
private feelings. She might have failed, but she consoled herself
with the reflection that but for her, Belinda would not have been
here to succeed in her stead.

It was not
until some time later that it occurred to her to wonder what Lord
Langriville might have to say to it. His opinion of her
capabilities being what it was, he would no doubt feel himself
vindicated.

***

He had stayed
away too long. Jerome knew it, but had lingered on in the
metropolis, finding first one thing and then another to keep him
there. Having sent for his valet, he was well equipped for a
lengthy sojourn, for Digmoor—no doubt delighted at the rare
prospect of a few days in London, poor fellow—had brought clothing
enough for half the season.

‘I have no
intention of attending any parties,’ Jerome had protested.

Bowing
acquiescence in his prim way, the valet had yet evaded the issue,
speaking in that clipped tone he used whenever he felt himself to
be in the right.

‘But you gave
no indication, my lord, of your intentions, so that it behoved me
to make provision for every eventuality.’

With which
Jerome could not argue. He had thought it prudent, however, to nip
in the bud any notion Digmoor might secretly entertain of bringing
his master back into fashion—a thing he had been trying to do for
years, without success.

‘Obviously it
didn’t occur to you that if you failed to bring the right gear, I
would be obliged to buy myself new toggery.’ He watched with grim
satisfaction as chagrin spread across the valet’s features. ‘Let it
be a lesson to you to employ a little more wit than cunning, my
friend.’

‘My lord, I
protest,’ uttered Digmoor in a pained sort of way. ‘I have your
interests at heart, and in the circumstances—’

‘Yes, yes, I am
aware that my entire household must know just what has happened,
yet I fail to understand why any of you should seek to change my
way of life. What, am I so readily regarded as a monster without
sense or feeling? Does not anyone have a scrap of compassion
for—’

He bit off the
words “my wife,” realising at the last instant, with a lurching at
his chest, that he must now say “my
late
wife”.

Digmoor was
murmuring an apology, but Jerome paid no heed, merely allowing the
valet to assist him into a welcome change of linen. But when his
valet would have put him into his accustomed country wear of
buckskin breeches and a claret-coloured coat, he was once more
smitten with the hideous sense of loss that had been riding him
these many days.

‘What the devil
is wrong with you, man? Have I no black in my wardrobe? Do you
expect me to appear in public in colours, with her ladyship but
just dead?’

Digmoor looked
crestfallen, and his tone was suitably chastened. ‘My lord, I beg
your pardon. I did not think.’

‘No, I don’t
suppose you did,’ sighed Jerome, his annoyance subsiding. ‘Why
should you, indeed? Why should anyone, seven years later?’

The valet
removed the offending clothing, returning to the press in which he
had secreted the viscount’s belongings.

‘I have been
most remiss, my lord, for I might have brought the blacks your
lordship wore for your late father. There is the dark blue suit,
however, which I venture to suggest will strike the right note of
sobriety.’

‘It will have
to do,’ agreed Jerome, and was struck with a sudden flash of grim
humour. ‘You may get your wish, after all, Digmoor, if I am obliged
to provide myself with blacks. You had best see my tailor and
arrange for it.’

‘Certainly, my
lord,’ said the valet, brightening. He brought forth a waistcoat of
blue, matched by a pair of breeches and a coat in a darker hue, and
began to assist Jerome into them. ‘Would your lordship require full
mourning?’

Jerome
considered this, buttoning the waistcoat. A delicate problem. Would
he not look a fool, clad from head to foot in black for a woman who
had left him seven years since? On the other hand, he had no wish
to raise gossipy tongues by an appearance of callousness. And one
could not go straight into half-mourning, nor merely sport a black
armband. To the devil with it! Let him defy convention, and do as
he felt right.

‘I will wear
black, but with white linen, including my neckcloth.’

‘In that case,
my lord, I will instruct your tailor to adhere to current
fashion.’

Said with a
touch of satisfaction, Jerome noted. No doubt the majority of his
wardrobe was a deal too démodé for Digmoor.

But the
reminder of his widowed state threw him back into the slough of
despond into which he had sunk. It irked him even as it claimed
him. He had thought himself cured. When Pinxton had confirmed what
everyone but Jerome had known all along—that he had married a
lightskirt and made of her a goddess—there had been so strong a
feeling of relief, he had expected the new lightness to endure.

Why had it not?
Why was he possessed of this inexplicable restlessness? And why was
he looking for excuses to stay away from his home? It had been his
refuge. Without warning, it had turned into a prison from which he
had escaped. But to what? An isolation as great as any he had
previously endured. Here in London, he felt more alone, more at
risk.

He made no
attempt to pick up old friendships. However, he had taken a room at
a hotel within reach of Brooks’s, where he spent most of each day,
with the convenience of excellent meals, daily journals—how he
missed his library!—and private rooms where he might meet with his
man of business, who was patiently going through Letty’s effects.
His presence had inevitably been noted therefore.

Surprise was at
first the most frequent reaction. Until the notice Frizington had
concocted appeared in the
Gazette
. Ah, then, what looks
became his lot. Conjecture in every face, together with stilted
greetings. None knew whether or not to comment upon his wife’s
demise. Jerome refused to help them. None, he decided, would
presume to offer condolences that must be deemed inappropriate. But
the lack of them suited ill with his mood.

When they came
at last, from a source with the least reason to see him released
from the married state, Jerome was perversely displeased. His
cousin and heir found him still seated at table after disposing of
a plain dinner of beefsteaks followed by cheese and fruit, the port
already half empty.

‘My dear, dear
Jerome. You must think me an ill-mannered lout, old fellow, but I
must beg your indulgence. I have but just returned to town, and the
news did not reach me until this very day. I came almost as soon as
I heard.’

‘I don’t doubt
it, Theo,’ returned Jerome drily, rescuing the hand Mr Sheinton had
seized upon and pumped without mercy. ‘How do you do?’

‘Never mind
me,’ said the other in a tone of anxious concern. ‘It’s you I’m
worried about, old fellow. How are you coping?’

‘Badly, if you
must have it. Sit down. I’ll call for another glass.’

His cousin
pulled out the chair next to him and threw himself into it, his air
that of one ready to offer commiseration and counsel, should it be
required of him.

‘Yes, I’ll take
port with you, old fellow. But I won’t be put off. If you don’t
stand in crying need of a friendly face, you may call me a
dunderhead.’

Tempted to
avail himself of this permission, Jerome chose instead to hold his
peace. An intimate knowledge of his young relative’s character gave
him every reason to suspect Sheinton’s motive, but the truth was he
did need someone to talk to, if merely to relieve his mind of its
torturous wanderings for an hour or so. He requested both a glass
and a fresh bottle from the waiter, and turned his attention to the
newcomer.

Several years
Jerome’s junior, Theodore Sheinton was a pretty young man in the
mould of classical paintings. Tightly curling guinea-gold hair
topped a mobile face with round fresh cheeks and a full-lipped
mouth. His straight nose was nicely in proportion, and he found
useful employment for a pair of bright green eyes in smiles that,
in Jerome’s view, lacked warmth. He was a pleasant enough fellow
for all that, and Jerome had no idea why he found it difficult to
hold him in affection.

Once he was
served and had sampled the port, Theo sat forward in his chair,
nursing the glass between his hands and, with a glance about at
those few patrons still occupying the dining area, lowered his
tone, entering a note of serious interest.

‘How did it
come about, Jerome? I was deeply shocked by the notice, which was
brought to my attention by a friend, but having no notion you were
in town, I went to your Aunt Painscastle.’

‘She told you
what happened, I suppose.’

‘Naturally. I
gather she was visiting your mother at Bedfont when the news was
brought.’

‘I wish she
might have remained there,’ Jerome said on a note of
bitterness.

‘To comfort
poor Cousin Avice, yes.’

‘Not that, no.
Merely to keep her nose out of my affairs.’

His cousin
laughed. ‘Yes, she hinted at her plans for you.’

Jerome eyed
him. ‘How much did she tell you?’

‘Oh, I don’t
know, old fellow. Some tale about a female who came to you with a
jewel? I did not take in the half of it, for I was so shocked, you
know.’

‘Yes.’

Into Jerome’s
mind crept an image of Florence Petrie. He had not thought of her
for days. Yet the vision of her was as clear as if he had seen her
but yesterday. To his consternation, he felt an immediate
resurgence of the eerie sensation of apprehension that had overcome
him the last time he had seen her. And he had installed the woman
in his house. Damnation!

‘What is it,
Jerome?’ uttered his cousin in a troubled voice. ‘You look
decidedly upset. Have I said aught amiss?’

‘No, nothing.’
He tried to dismiss the feeling, together with all remembrance of
the Petrie female, and concentrate his attention on Sheinton. ‘I
was wool-gathering.’

Jerome
fortified himself with a long draught from his glass. Theo refilled
it for him, a frown between the delicate fair brows.