Undesirable Liaison (5 page)

‘What?’ gasped
Belinda in a scandalised tone. ‘Give away a thousand pounds to a
lady’s maid? You must be mad!’

‘She has far
more right to it than either you or I.’

‘In any event,’
went on Belinda, as if she had not heard this, ‘there’s no point in
searching for the owner when we know she’s dead.’

‘And what,
pray, of
Lord
Langriville?’

Belinda stopped
dead, turning a blank gaze upon Florence.

‘What do you
mean?’

‘Do try for a
little common sense, Bel. If the lady had that title, she must have
acquired it by marriage. It follows that anything she possessed
must pass to her husband, or if he is also deceased, to his
heirs.’

Belinda
struggled with this indisputable fact for a moment. Her cheeks grew
pink at length, and she expressed herself in a tone of strong
indignation.

‘Well, I don’t
think much of Lord Langriville, if his wife is obliged to live in
that horrid place and sew her jewellery into her clothes.’

Reflecting on
the probable nature of Lady Langriville’s life, Florence could not
but regard this utterance with a degree of sympathy. She was
assailed once more by a haunting sensation of tragedy.

***

The library at
Bedfont House was usually regarded as off limits. In general, only
Fewston could be persuaded upon at need to disturb his lordship in
this refuge. But then butlers, as he loftily informed his
inferiors, were of an order to be intimidat
ing
rather than
intimidat
ed
. It was, nevertheless, with a trifle of
circumspection that he approached the figure seated in the
half-round of the window embrasure.

Peeking between
the high bookcases either side, Fewston saw his master in profile,
dark head bent upon a book, the long raven locks swept back and
tied in the nape of his neck, outlining the strongly cast jaw and
the long aristocratic nose.

The butler
paused, wondering if it was wise to interrupt. His lordship had
shown more edgy than usual these past few days, on account, if the
contretemps at breakfast was anything to go by, of the interruption
to his ordered existence through the advent of Lady Painscastle,
his maternal aunt.

Visitors were
few and far between in this unhappy house, which perfectly suited
the preference of Jerome, Viscount Langriville. He did not consider
himself a recluse, for he paid lip service to the demands of
country living. One needs must keep company with one’s neighbours.
He picked with care, however, those invitations he accepted,
eschewing any gathering wherein he might expect to encounter
persons with whom he was unacquainted. Long inured to the scandal,
he yet dreaded the shifting eye of curiosity or wonder. One had as
well be a freak in a sideshow.

The occasional
descents upon the house of his Aunt Phoebe he found both punitive
and unsettling. A visit made immediately prior to her annual jaunt
to London for the season could have but one motive. Ostensibly come
to bring succour to the dowager—and Lord knew his mother was in
need of support—Lady Painscastle could never refrain from urging
him to settle his affairs and remarry. As if it were a matter of
simplicity.

Did she suppose
he could free himself in time to scurry up to the metropolis and
take his pick from among the season’s crop of debutantes? Besides,
even if Letty could be found—for, despite all effort, had not
Frizington lost track of her near two years since?—Jerome had no
stomach for the complicated procedure of divorce, which must of
necessity be conducted in the full glare of publicity. The thought
made him shudder.

His aunt having
renewed her persuasions at breakfast, Jerome had slipped away to
seek solace, as he always did, in his books. His favoured leather
chair was set in the bay, where he could make use of the light from
the tall window, and at the same time remain more or less hidden by
the massive shelves either side. With one booted foot set upon the
sill, Jerome sat at his ease, resting his elbows against the wooden
arms, a fat leather-bound volume open on his lap.

Not that he had
been able to keep his mind on the volume he had taken up in
preference to Homer, feeling little inclined today to read of
Odysseus and his amatory adventures with Calypso, the point he had
reached in his study of the epic tale. The painful recollections
conjured up by the discussion with Aunt Phoebe had preyed upon him,
much to his chagrin.

Had he not yet
schooled himself to acceptance? It had been seven years. Seven
interminable years. Absurd it should still affect him. Was it
pride? That was the accusation thrown at his head by Lady
Painscastle.

‘Naturally his
pride was wounded,’ his mother had defended him, ‘but it is not
that, Phoebe.’

‘You will not
pretend his heart is broken, my dear Avice,’ had said his aunt in a
voice of mockery. ‘Even had the marriage been more than one of
arrangement and convenience, it must have mended by now.’

His mother had
dissolved into tearful petulance, which had become a habit with
her. Jerome neither knew nor cared whether she believed his
affections had been blighted, as long as her lachrymose state
served to divert his aunt. Impatient but withal kind, she had
turned her attention to petting her sister into a better frame of
mind, while Jerome had made good his escape.

His attention
to the Phaedo in the original Latin might be desultory, but the
pose served to warn intruders he was engaged. His servants, well
trained, might peep in at the door, or creep about on tiptoe if
they had business in the room. None save Fewston dared trouble him.
His mother never came near the library. Not through fear of being
repulsed, she knew well he was ever at her service. However, the
Dowager Lady Langriville had as little wish for company as did her
son. Her sister’s visit did little to reduce the settled air of
melancholy she had worn for so many years.

He sighed and
shifted his gaze to the view beyond the window, where his gardeners
were engaged in removing dead leaves blown by winter winds over the
frosty lawns.

A tentative
cough in the vicinity of the main room drew his attention.
Damnation! What the devil induced his butler to disturb him in the
forenoon?

Jerome turned
his head. ‘What is it, Fewston?’

The butler
ventured a step or two into the bay, noting with unease the black
brows drawn together in a frown above the deep-set brown eyes.

‘A person has
called, my lord.’

Lord
Langriville gazed at him. ‘Are you insane?’

‘No, my lord. I
should have explained…’

‘Since when do
I entertain callers? Is it not enough that the place is swamped
with aunts of every persuasion? What do you mean by coming in here
to announce that a person has called? What sort of person? What
does he want?’

Fewston was
visibly wilting. ‘Not a he, my lord. If you will allow me—’

‘Not a he? A
female, then. What the devil makes you suppose I would be willing
to see any sort of female person? There are enough damned females
in this house as it is! Tell her to go away. Or let Brumby deal
with her. In fact, why in heaven’s name didn’t Brumby deal with
her? What do I pay a housekeeper for, if it is not to keep females
from bothering me?’

‘My lord, I beg
of you,’ uttered the butler, losing a deal of his air of
assurance.

With an effort,
Jerome reined himself in. He had little realised how much out of
temper his aunt had rendered him. It scarce became him to take it
out on the butler. Nevertheless, it was not like Fewston to be
jockeyed into attempting to bring strangers before him. And a
female at that. He eyed the man.

‘Well?’

The butler
inclined his head. ‘It was Mrs Brumby who requested me to bring the
matter to your attention, my lord.’

‘Then it’s
Brumby who has taken leave of her senses, is it?’

‘Pray, my lord,
have a little patience!’

Jerome sighed
out his frustration and settled back in his chair, laying aside his
book and waving a resigned hand.

‘Go on.’

‘It appears, my
lord, that the female—I hesitate to claim she is a lady, although
it seems she is well spoken, for Mrs Brumby asserts her attire is
distinctly shabby—’

‘Yes, yes, pass
over all that. What does she want, and why does Brumby think I
should see her?’

‘The person’s
name is Petrie, my lord.’

Fewston
hesitated, an odd questioning look in his eye. His lordship raised
his brows.

‘Well?’

‘The name is
unknown to your lordship?’

‘Quite
unknown.’

The butler gave
a nod, which might have been of acquiescence. ‘The person, my lord,
states that she has business with you, which she refuses to
disclose. Business—’ with a significant cough ‘—of a delicate
nature.’

Jerome was
momentarily bereft of speech. He stared at the man, wondering if he
had indeed lost his wits. Or was he drunk? No aroma of liquor hung
about him, so it could not be that. The fellow was elderly, having
served Jerome’s father before him, but scarcely senile. His
lordship found his tongue.

‘If you can’t
do better than that, Fewston, you are growing too old for my
service.’ The butler paled, and Jerome regretted the cutting tone.
He softened. ‘Come, this is not like you. Why, you have safeguarded
me from any number of importunate persons in the past. What in the
world made you bring this one to my attention?’

Fewston
stiffened his back and looked his master in the eye. ‘I have every
faith in Mrs Brumby’s judgement, my lord. She was adamant your
lordship ought to make an exception.’

He paused, as
if deciding whether or not to say more. Jerome held his gaze, and
waited. So far, there was nothing here to persuade him to
relent.

The butler’s
uncharacteristic sigh was audible. ‘My lord, I understand the
female in the case is determined. She says she will not leave until
she has been granted an interview.’

Jerome was
almost tempted to give in. But this was blackmail. He was not the
man to be swayed by impertinence of this order. He reached out for
his book again.

‘Then let her
remain outside my house indefinitely.’

Fewston
hesitated, and Jerome raised his brows. His voice was silk.

‘That will be
all.’

To his secret
triumph, the butler yielded, bowing himself out of the embrasure.
Jerome pretended to bury himself in Plato once again.

***

The message was
delivered to Florence, not outside the house, but in the large hall
where she was seated upon a straight chair to one side. From this
vantage point, her view was restricted to the central staircase
rising up one flight and splitting into two sections leading up
either side of the house to a balustered gallery. None but a couple
of liveried male servants and one black-clad maid had been seen
while she waited, in a state of extreme nervousness, while the
plump housekeeper bustled off to “see what she could do”. The
worried expression on the woman’s face had not been hopeful, but
Flo had been relieved to understand that her mission merited
enquiry.

It was only
after she had been given a chair in the hall and requested to wait
that it occurred to Flo how her request might have been
misinterpreted. A lone female asking for the master of the house on
a delicate matter? Great heavens, they must suppose her to be the
gentleman’s
chère amie!

That this was
precisely what the housekeeper had thought became obvious when she
reappeared from the passage at the other side of the hall,
accompanied by an elderly fellow who must be the butler. Both wore
expressions of severity.

‘His lordship
will not see you, ma’am,’ uttered the Brumby woman, not without a
touch of disdain. ‘Mr Fewston will assure you his lordship has no
knowledge of your existence.’

Flo glanced
from the woman’s round cheeks to the butler’s disapproving
countenance. Suppressing an uncomfortable sensation at the pit of
her stomach, she assembled her best superior manner.

‘I fail to see
how Lord Langriville could know of my existence. Indeed, until last
week, I had no knowledge of his.’ She glanced back at the
housekeeper. ‘I cannot think where you came by the notion his
lordship might know of me.’

The woman
reddened and fidgeted with the bunch of keys at her waist. ‘You
said it was a delicate matter, ma’am.’

‘But I gave you
no inkling as to the nature of it. I do not know what assumption
you made, but—’

‘If you will
allow me, ma’am,’ interrupted the butler, giving a slight bow.

Florence looked
an enquiry. She was determined not to be intimidated. Her purpose
was sufficient, and she was acting in good faith.

‘His lordship,’
pursued the man Fewston, ‘is disinclined to entertain visitors at
any time. I fear he will not relax his rule in your favour.’

For an instant,
Flo was tempted to let the matter rest. She had known it might
prove more difficult to introduce herself into the residence of a
peer of the realm than to locate the person who had pawned the
greatcoat dress, but until this moment, she had not thought how a
well-intentioned act could be misconstrued. But her conscience
would not permit her to walk away.

She glanced
from one to the other of the expectant faces looking down at her.
Did they suppose she was about to capitulate? They would learn to
know her better. Only should she perhaps give an inkling of her
business?

Yet faced with
the blatant evidence that the Lady Langriville who had sewn the
ruby into the gown had been disgraced, she could not in all
conscience mention her name in this household. A complication she
had stupidly failed to foresee.

On impulse, she
threw out a feeler. ‘Is it perhaps possible I might speak instead
with
Lady
Langriville?’