Undesirable Liaison (16 page)

‘My lord?’

‘I told you to
fetch that Petrie woman down here to me. What are you waiting
for?’

Flo’s pulse
leaped and quickened. What did he want with her? Had he heard of
her inefficiency? Or that she had allowed Belinda too much licence
with his mother? Did he mean to dismiss her?

Common sense
came to her rescue. If he had heard—from whom, she did not pretend
to guess—he would be sure to seek an explanation before throwing
her out. His temper had clearly been roused. Of what use to wait?
She had best face it and find out.

She started
down the stairs, and met Mrs Brumby on the landing. The housekeeper
jumped, dropping the folds of the dressing gown she had been
holding up as she came up the first flight. She lifted her
candle.

‘Miss Petrie! I
was just coming to wake you.’

‘Yes, I gather
his lordship wishes to speak to me.’

Mrs Brumby
leaned close, lowering her voice. ‘His lordship is a little the
worse for wear, ma’am. I beg you to be careful.’

The worse for
wear? Flo looked down to where Lord Langriville was standing in the
shadows, rocking slightly. He was shrouded in a greatcoat sporting
several capes, but he had no hat, and his hair was dishevelled,
locks of it hanging loose upon his shoulders. On either side, the
butler and another man, fully dressed, stood with hands poised as
if ready to catch him. For a moment, she was puzzled. And then it
all fell into place. His lordship was inebriated.

The flurry of
her pulses began to subside, replaced by a rise of irritation as
she began to descend the remaining flight. She was halfway down
before he lifted his head and saw her. He flung out an accusing
finger.

‘Ha! There you
are!’ The finger made an arc and pointed to the floor before him.
‘Come down here to me!’

Florence
slowed, faintly apprehensive again, and disconcerted by the staring
dark eyes that watched her as she came down the remainder of the
stairway. Another candle in a holder stood upon a dresser to one
side. As she moved a couple of steps towards him, she was caught in
its pool.

‘My lord?’

He did not
speak, but his gaze raked her from her head to her heels. Flo’s
mouth went dry, and she became acutely conscious of her
unconventional attire. She swallowed, and wet her lips with her
tongue. Lord Langriville caught the movement and his eyes lingered
on her mouth and then rose slowly to meet hers.

‘You’re not
dressed.’

‘No, my lord,’
she agreed. ‘I was woken by the sounds of your arrival.’ Better not
attempt to explain why she had got up out of bed to
investigate.

‘There now, my
lord,’ came from Mrs Brumby, appearing at Flo’s side. ‘Should we
not all go to bed? The maids are scarcely stirring yet, and Miss
Petrie will be here at a later hour.’

The tone was
persuasive, and the servant Florence did not know added his
voice.

‘You could use
the rest yourself, my lord, having been up half the night. What
with the travelling—and you have scarce slept upon the journey—you
must be ready for your bed.’

‘Hold your
tongue, Digmoor! I’m not going to bed until I’ve got to the bottom
of this. You go to bed. And you, Brumby. All of you, go to
bed!’

The others
hesitated, but Florence turned as if she would head back to the
stairs.

‘Not you,’ came
snappily from behind her. ‘I meant the others.’

Flo turned
again. ‘If you insist, my lord.’

‘I do insist,’
he returned, and staggered a little. The two men leaped to help
him, but he waved them away. ‘Off with you. I don’t need you.’ He
crossed to the dresser and picked up the candle. ‘Come, Miss
Petrie.’

Without further
ado, he walked away, swaying a little as he went, the long skirts
of his greatcoat swinging behind him.

Florence
paused, uncertain whether to follow or to seize the chance to slip
back upstairs. He would scarcely follow her to her bedchamber. On
the other hand, in his present condition, she could not be sure of
that. He was determined to speak to her. She recalled his words.
Get to the bottom of what?

The servants
had not moved. She looked at them, and noted the exchange of
glances between the butler and Mrs Brumby. The fellow Digmoor—his
lordship’s valet, she guessed—was looking after his master and
shaking his head.

‘Had the devil
in him all night,’ he announced sorrowfully as his lordship
disappeared through the door into the card room. ‘Been out with Mr
Sheinton until the early hours, and when he got back, nothing would
do for him but to set off immediate for home.’

‘You’d best go
on, Miss Petrie,’ advised the housekeeper. ‘That stubborn is his
lordship, when he gets a notion into his head.’

Fewston nodded
his agreement. ‘He won’t spare his tongue if you don’t do as he
says, miss.’

With
difficulty, Flo refrained from retorting that she didn’t give a fig
for his lordship’s temper, nor for his throwing his tongue. She
could give as good as she got, and had done so. Except she was now,
like the rest, in Lord Langriville’s employ. The recollection
stirred her blood. Let him dismiss her then. She would find herself
another post rather than kowtow to a man in his cups.

But the three
servants headed, not as instructed for their beds, but instead for
the nether regions. No doubt they would confer for some little
while upon Lord Langriville’s vagaries, and thoroughly enjoy it.
What should she do?

Before she
could make up her mind, an angry shout reached her from the card
room.

‘Florence
Petrie, come in here this instant!’

Incensed, Flo
plunged into the dimness and followed his voice. She could just see
the entrance to the card room, and guessed the light was from the
spill of his candle. Reaching the door, she saw him, waiting at the
other end of the room in the doorway to the Little Parlour. Flo
crossed towards him and he gave way to let her through. He must
have opened the shutters, for the chamber was visible within the
greyness emanating from the window.

She went to the
sofa and sat down in a prim pose, pulling her night attire about
her legs and catching her hands together in her lap. She began to
feel chilled and wished she had at least put on a pair of slippers.
Watching Lord Langriville set the candle on the mantel, and drag
across the harpsichord stool, Florence was hit with a sensation of
déjà vu
. The first meeting between them took on
significance.

And then his
lordship, attempting to seat himself upon the stool, missed and
fell heavily against the fireplace. Flo jumped up automatically and
went to his aid, grabbing at his greatcoat.

‘Let be!’ he
said on a testy note.

Thrusting away
from the mantel, he staggered halfway across the room. Florence
watched him with rising annoyance. Unable to contain it, she let
fly.

‘You are drunk,
Lord Langriville! What in the world do you want with me at a moment
like this? Aside from embarrassing me in front of your servants,
that is.’

He had
succeeded in righting himself and standing his ground. But he flung
out a hand.

‘I want you to
answer me this: from what are you running away?’

Blank with
bewilderment, Flo stared at him. ‘Have you taken leave of your
senses?’

‘No, I’ve come
to my s-senses rather,’ he retorted, slurring his esses. ‘I’ve been
puzzling it out all night, and I know I’m right. Damned secretive
female! Something untoward in that mysterious past of yours, isn’t
there? Of course there is. But you wouldn’t tell me. I remember
that. In the carriage, you wouldn’t tell me. But you’ll tell me
now. What was it, Florence? What are you hiding?’

A surge of rage
flooded her. ‘I will not stay to be questioned thus!’

Lord
Langriville was standing in her path, the greatcoat making of his
silhouette in the grey dawn a monstrous figure. But Florence was
too heated to care. She strode forward and made to brush past him.
He caught at her, reeling as he turned and bringing her with him.
Almost they fell to the floor together. In a bid to put him back on
his feet, Flo pushed at his chest with all her might and felt his
clutch strengthen upon her shoulders. Somehow, they steadied and
stood together, eyes locked in combat.

‘I want an
answer.’

‘You will not
get one.’

He shook her.
‘Answer me!’

‘Not while I
live!’

‘Damnation,
Florence, I could break your neck!’

‘And I, sir,
could readily hit you again!’

There was a
pause. Flo became aware of the reek of spirits on his breath. She
should have been disgusted, but she found she did not care. His
dark eyes burned at her, raking her face. She became all at once
acutely aware of his grip upon her arms, of the hardness of his
chest beneath her hands—even through the greatcoat she could feel
the strength of muscle. A flash of heat shot through her veins,
igniting a flame deep within that terrified her. She could not have
spoken had her life depended on it.

But Lord
Langriville spoke, a low guttural tone, redolent with feeling.

‘I’ve spent
weeks not thinking of you.
Not
thinking, Florence. Do you
know how hard it has been?’

Instinctively
she understood him, but she shook her head, afraid of the truth in
his eyes, in her bosom. Truth she had buried deep, in hopes it
would never find her out.

‘Until this
moment, I had no idea why I had stayed away,’ he pursued. ‘I was
too wrapped up in Letty—in my obsession with her. Too wrapped up in
what I thought I felt.’ A deep groan escaped him. ‘I must have been
mad!’

How it
happened, Florence had no notion, but the next instant, she was
locked in his embrace and his lips had fastened upon hers. Heat
enveloped her, and for a moment she lay passive in his arms, while
the blood thrummed in her head and sensation almost overcame her
senses.

Whether it was
a seed of common sense, or sheer terror at where she was headed,
Flo could not have said. But from somewhere, from a shred of sanity
remaining in the maelstrom he had brought about, she found strength
to resist.

Violently, she
broke free, throwing herself backwards, away from him.

‘No,’ she
managed, a quiver in her throat. ‘You are drunk, my lord, and this
is not real. Never touch me again!’

With which, she
flung herself out of the Little Parlour, and ran as for her life,
her bare feet almost soundless on the cold stone floor.

***

Jerome woke
with a head like a rock and spikes behind his eyes. When he groaned
his agony aloud, he discovered his mouth dry, his tongue furred and
his throat thick with a desperate thirst. Seeking for water, he
raised himself upon one elbow. A mistake. His stomach heaved and
his head swam. Defeated, he collapsed back upon his pillows,
praying for death.

Instead,
blessed relief arrived in the form of a soaked towel tenderly
placed upon his forehead. A moment of two of bliss, and then the
sensation of thirst overtook him again. With difficulty, he thrust
open his eyes and found his valet’s concerned features hovering
above him. He managed a single plea before his eyelids fell down
again.

‘Water!’

His head was
raised, and he drank greedily from the glass put to his lips.
Satisfied at last, Jerome feebly pushed at the glass and allowed
his head to loll back. It was laid down and he sank into a
semi-slumberous torpor, in which he remained for an unfathomable
time.

Confused
shadows plagued him, like dreams and then unlike. A half-formed
vision of a face surrounded by a river of darkness. He caught at an
elusive identity, at a vague thought of things said or done which
must be undone, if they could not be unsaid. At times he knew he
slept, for his ills left him then, replaced by real dreams. Those
undetermined streams of happening, which made sense in part, but
which travelled realms of fantasy, peopled by the dead.

From time to
time, he felt a renewal of coolness at his brow and knew Digmoor to
be at hand. Such moments were painful, resurrecting discomfort, and
he was glad to fall back into a comatose state of relative ease. At
length sleep deserted him altogether, and he had nothing to do but
regret the bottle and nurse his aching head.

The nausea,
Jerome discovered when he ventured to sit up, had receded. But he
felt disagreeably delicate and had nothing but disgust for
Digmoor’s various suggestions for his relief. Apart from cool
draughts of water, which he relished, the majority involved eating,
which was impossible.

‘If you imagine
I can swallow a morsel,’ he said irascibly, ‘you must have
windmills in your head.’

‘I venture to
suggest your lordship will feel the better for it,’ pursued the
valet. ‘A little clear soup and a slice of dry bread—’

‘Digmoor, if
you value your position, recite me no more menus.’

The valet
sighed. ‘Very well, my lord. But Mrs Brumby is convinced your
lordship must be hungry by now, and dinner will not be served for
an hour or two yet.’

‘An hour or
two! What time is it?’

‘Past three, my
lord.’

‘Good God!’

A deprecating
cough came from the man. ‘It was nigh on six before you were abed,
my lord, and you’d travelled up from town in the early hours.’

Jerome stared
at him without actually seeing him, a panorama of last night’s
events rolling through his mind. A sea of unknown or long-forgotten
faces in vaguely familiar taverns; talk jocular and political both,
in which he had taken little part, his brain wrestling with a
problem of scant importance but intense significance. About that
girl. Had he talked of it? Mentioned her name? He thought he
recalled a snatch of interchange with Theo.