Chapter Fifteen
March 29th, 1809—Bruton Street, Mayfair, London
Light flooded out as the front door opened. Luc slowed to a stroll on the corner of Berkeley Square and watched the post-chaise drawn up at the kerb. Averil walked up the steps, paused. There was discussion, too far away for him to hear, then she and the maid went in and a pair of footmen ran down to take their bags.
She was inside, but he had expected that. How long would she stay? That was the question. If she was determined on being utterly frank with Bradon, then what would the man do? He could ship her straight back to India, he supposed, although that would involve cost and Luc suspected that the family was not given to paying cash on the nail for anything if they could avoid it. He might simply throw her out. Or he might accept her.
That would be the action of a trusting, forgiving man. Or a man who wanted Averil’s money more than he was concerned about her honour. Luc paced slowly around the periphery of the big square, past Gunther’s, past the huge old plane trees, back up the eastern side to the corner.
Well, she wasn’t out on the pavement with her bag at her feet so he should take himself off to his chambers in Albany, five minutes’ walk away, and try to be pleased about it. Best not to walk along past the house; she might be looking out and feel pursued.
Which was exactly what he was doing, although he did not want to distress her by doing so. Somehow he could not keep away. Perhaps Mere had been a mistake, or simply unkind. He had wanted to help her, make the long, fraught, journey easier. But he had also wanted to see her, touch her, steal a kiss if he could. Like an infatuated schoolboy, Luc thought with a wry twist of his mouth as he strode up the slope of Hay Hill and right into Dover Street.
Bradon would be a fool to spurn Averil. She was rich, lovely, intelligent and patently honest. He would believe her when she told him she was a virgin, surely?
Luc turned left out of Dover Street into the bustle of Piccadilly, his mood sliding towards grim. Averil was not going to be his, it was not right that she should be, and to wish that she would be forced into that position was selfish.
All right, I’m selfish. But I didn’t cast her up on the beach at Tubbs’s feet. I didn’t keep her bedridden for days. Yes, but I could have locked the damned door and slept with the men; his conscience riposted. I needn’t have slept in her bed, kissed her, shown her what lovemaking could be like, taught her desire. But I did not take her virginity, he thought. I could have done, and I did not. I could have seduced her.
It was the same conversation he’d been having with himself since he had left Plymouth. He supposed it was partly mild euphoria to blame for his reckless decision to try to find her on the London road. But the admiral had been enthusiastic about the mission, he was assured of a good reception at the Admiralty; his life, it seemed, was back on course, his honour restored. Porthington, he had been informed by a secretary with a very straight face, would be offered a posting in the West Indies. A long way away, and unhealthy with it, the man had added.
So now Luc would have more than enough to keep himself occupied until their lordships decided where to post him next. There would be work to be done to tie up the Isles of Scilly leaks, news to catch up on and the Season was in full swing. He could make an effort and start a serious quest for a wife. And he would wait and watch Averil as she ventured into her new life, his hands outstretched to catch her if she slipped from Bradon’s grasp.
The image of Averil tumbling into his arms was enough to make his mouth curve into a smile. He walked into the cobbled forecourt of Albany, nodded to the doorman and climbed the stone stairs to his chambers to see what was awaiting him after more than two months away.
At the door he paused, hand on the knob, as a shiver ran down his spine. He was tempting fate, instinct told him—the same instinct that had saved his life at sea before now. He thought he was stepping back into his old life, but in a better, more purposeful way. But now there was someone else to consider—he was not alone any more.
She isn’t yours, he told himself and opened the door. You have to let her go. The pain was sharp, just as he knew it would be if he was ever careless enough to care about someone. Too late now …
‘Hughes! Send out for a decent supper. I’m back.’
‘Miss Heydon. The earl and Lord Bradon are expecting you. Her ladyship also,’ the butler added. His eyes flickered over her travel-stained, borrowed gown, the two small valises, Grace’s dumpy figure. ‘This way, if you please. The family is in the—’
‘I would not dream of going to them in my dirt,’ Averil said. ‘Perhaps someone could show me to my room and have hot water sent up. And please tell the family that I will be with them directly.’
The butler’s gaze sharpened into something like respect. ‘Very good, Miss Heydon. This is your woman?’
‘Waters is my dresser, yes. When I have something other than borrowed garments, that is,’ she added. ‘Doubtless there is a room for her?’
‘Yes, Miss Heydon. John, show Miss Heydon to the Amber suite. Peters, water at once and have Mrs Gifford send one of the girls up to assist Waters.’
‘Thank you.’ Averil straightened her shoulders, sent a firm message to her wobbly knees and followed the footman up the stairs. Start as you mean to go on, she told herself. And being intimidated by the upper servants would not be a good beginning. Nor would appearing before her future mother-in-law looking like a hoyden.
‘‘Strewth, miss,’ Grace said as the footman left. ‘It’s a bit grand, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed, yes.’ Averil turned on her heel to admire the heavy golden-brown hangings, the tassels, the gilt-framed pictures, the marble overmantel. None of it was new, she could see that, and all of it, in her honest opinion, needed some loving care. It was not exactly shabby, but it was definitely worn.
Hot water came with exemplary speed, brought by a pretty maid with freckles who confided that she was Alice and would Miss Heydon like a cup of tea?
‘We both would,’ Averil said firmly as Grace attacked her dusty hem with a clothes brush. A large glass of wine would be even better, she thought as she washed her hands and face and began to unpin her hair. But she was going to need all her wits about her now.
‘Thank you, Rogers, I am ready now.’ The butler looked up as she came down the stairs and she congratulated herself on thinking to ask his name.
He opened a door and announced, ‘Miss Heydon, my lady.’
Averil found herself in cool, glittering elegance. White silk walls, gilt details, marble, a pale lemon-and-cream carpet that stretched like an ice flow across dark glossy floorboards towards the chairs and a sofa arranged in a conversation-piece setting at the far end.
Two men got to their feet from the armchairs as she began the interminable walk across the carpet. The taller must be the Earl of Kingsbury, she realised. His brown hair was grey at the temples, his thin face lined more with experience than age. Beside him was his son Andrew, Lord Bradon. Her betrothed. The man she was going to spend the rest of her life with—if he would take her. Shorter than his father, plumper, with the same brown hair and brown eyes. A comparison with another man of the same age flickered through her mind and she forced a smile.
She arrived in front of the sofa and the woman who sat on it. Small, birdlike, dark-haired and dark-eyed: the countess. Her steady regard changed suddenly into a bright smile. The two men bowed. Averil curtsied. We ‘re like automata, she thought wildly. A clock would chime at any moment.
‘My dear Miss Heydon! What an adventurous journey you have had to be sure. Come and sit beside me. Bradon, ring for wine—we must drink to Miss Heydon’s safe arrival.’
Averil sat, expecting an embrace, a kiss or at least a pat on the hand. Nothing. The men resumed their seats, the countess sat beside her, straight-backed, hands folded in her lap.
‘You left your family in good health, I trust?’
‘Yes, ma’am. My father sends his good wishes and regrets that he was unable to accompany me.’
‘Business pressures, no doubt,’ the countess remarked and the earl smiled. Rogers brought in a tray with champagne already poured. Averil curled her fingers around the fragile stem of the flute and made herself focus on not snapping it.
‘Er. Yes.’ No one appeared about to make a toast so she sipped the wine. It fizzed down into her empty stomach. Mistake. I don’t care.
‘And it was an uneventful voyage until the shipwreck, I trust.’
‘Yes, ma’am, thank you.’ She doubted that her future mother-in-law wanted to hear about mad dogs in Madras, Christmas festivities on board or a joint attempt by the younger passengers to write a sensation novel.
‘And the ship was wrecked on the fifteenth of last month, I understand?’
Why were the men so quiet? Averil addressed her answer to Andrew. ‘Yes, that is correct. At night.’
‘But the letter from the Governor was dated the twenty-first, six days later.’ The countess frowned. ‘That was very remiss of him, I fear.’
‘I was unconscious for three days, on one of the outlying islands. They did not know who I was.’ The Governor would have told them that already—her skin began to prickle with apprehension. They were already suspicious. She would tell Andrew what happened tomorrow; she could not blurt it out now, not in front of his parents like this.
‘Oh. I see. You were cared for by respectable people, one hopes.’
‘A secret navy mission. They rescued me when I was swept on to the beach.’
‘Men?’ The countess might as well have said Cockroaches?
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Averil took another sip between gritted teeth. She had known this was not going to be easy, but why did her betrothed not utter a word? The earl was watching her from under hooded lids: a calculating, predatory stare. ‘I really cannot say much more about it just now—it was very confidential. I will explain all about it tomorrow to Lord Bradon.’
He spoke so suddenly that she jumped. ‘I am sure you will.’ He might as well have been referring to details of a shopping expedition to buy a new hat. ‘Ah, here is Rogers. Dinner at last.’
‘You slept well, my dear?’
‘Thank you, yes. My lord.’ Andrew Bradon had not asked her to use his given name, so she did not presume. The study was very masculine, very English. Was it his taste, or his father’s? The earl had excused himself after dinner and she had not seen him since. She suspected that he was not much at home.
The chair Brandon offered her was comfortable, they were alone, his expression was pleasant. What, then, was making her stomach tie itself into knots? This was much worse than she had imagined when she had woken that morning in a bed that seemed far too large and soft and lonely.
‘I believe there is something you need to tell me about the shipwreck.’ He settled back in his own chair behind the desk and nodded encouragingly. Why, then, did feel she had been called in to explain breaking the best china?
‘About the aftermath and my rescue, yes.’ This was the right thing to do. Averil took in a breath. ‘I was washed up on the beach of an island that is normally uninhabited. I was found by a group of men who were part of a secret mission to intercept messages being sent to the French by a traitor in the islands. Their captain assisted me to shelter in the old isolation hospital on the island.’
‘And why did he not return you immediately to the main island?’
‘Because I was semi-conscious. He had no way of knowing whether, when I awoke, I would say anything about their presence there. At that point no one could be trusted.’
He did not say much, this man. No exclamations of sympathy or anger, no reaction at all save for a pursing of his lips. Averil guessed he was waiting for her to prattle on out of sheer nervousness and rather thought he was succeeding. ‘I was unconscious for two days.’
‘Three nights.’ Of course, he had to pinpoint the number of nights. ‘Who nursed you?’
‘He did. The officer.’
‘Did he rape you?’ Still the same calm, pleasant tone.
‘No!’
‘Really? Are you certain? You say you were unconscious.’
‘I would be able to tell. And besides, he is not that kind of man.’ She tried to keep the passion out of her voice, offer an objective assessment, but she was not at all sure she succeeded.
‘Did he take liberties of any kind?’
‘He kissed me. I slept in his bed.’ There, she had said it.
‘In his bed?’ Everything about Bradon’s rounded features sharpened as though he had suddenly come into focus. ‘In his bed?’
‘It was that or sleep outside with the men who were a rough crew sleeping in makeshift shelters.’
‘And you kissed him. Did you enjoy it?’ He was coolly objective again.
‘I have nothing to compare it with. I am a virgin, my lord.’ And I am blushing like a peony and ready to sink. It was so much worse than she had expected, even though he was so calm and dispassionate. Perhaps because of that. Why was he showing no emotion?
Averil found she was on her feet. ‘I give you my word! Why on earth should I tell you this if it was not out of a desire to be honest with my betrothed?’
‘Because you fear you may be with child, of course.’ He steepled his fingers and regarded her over the top of them.
‘With child?’ For a moment it did not make sense. What was he talking about? She could not be pregnant because Luc had not … Then the anger came. He did not believe her. ‘It would have to be an immaculate conception then, my lord.’
‘Do not blaspheme!’ Finally, some emotion.
‘I am not lying. I am not pregnant because it is impossible that I should be.’
‘Indeed, I hope you are telling me the truth. I will not tolerate a lying wife.’
He was going to throw her out. Something very like relief flooded through her. Averil shook her head. Relief? This was a catastrophe. ‘I understand that given the possibilities for scandal you would wish to reconsider the marriage contract. But it was a secret mission, you may rely on nothing of my presence coming out. The Governor gave his assurances that he would say nothing.’
‘How you do run on, my dear.’ Bradon brought his hands palm down on to the desktop and studied her. ‘I did not seek to marry you for your virginity, when all is said and done. We will simply wait and see for a month.’
‘Wait? And if I am not with child, you marry me?’
‘It seems prudent, would you not say?’
It seemed incredibly cold-blooded. Averil struggled to say so, with tact. ‘You do not trust my word or you would not insist on this stratagem. Does it not concern you that I might have lied to you, that I am not a virgin, but I have escaped becoming pregnant? Is such suspicion any basis for marriage?’
‘How very innocent you are, my dear—about life, if not in other ways. I am marrying you for the benefits of your very substantial dowry. My father is expensive, I fear. You are marrying me for a title and status. You appear to be a handsome young woman of good address and refined manner, as I was led to believe. What has changed? Has your dowry gone down with the ship?’
‘No. Of course not.’ So this was how it would be: polite cynicism. He would accept her because he would discover soon enough that she was not pregnant whether he believed it at this moment or not. She must accept him because he had given her no reason not to. He had not struck her or rejected her. He had not even raised his voice to her. She felt more cold than when Luc had carried her from the sea. This man simply did not care about her at all.
‘Will it not appear odd that the marriage is delayed?’ She tried to match his tone.
‘Why, no. No one of any significance knows of it, after all. You are visiting us, we will introduce you into society. After a month I may—or may not—marry you. There will be no expectations, so no gossip, no unpleasant rumours.’
‘How civilised,’ Averil murmured and he looked pleased, although she did not know how he hoped to keep it a secret. Dita knew. Alistair Lyndon and Callum Chatterton knew. Her chaperon knew. She had made no secret of her reason for travelling to England when she had been on the ship. But something held her back from saying so.
Then she realised why. She welcomed this breathing space. It took little mental effort to calculate that she had three weeks’ grace before her mother-in-law knew she was not with child; there was no possibility of hiding such things from the female servants.
‘There are some practical matters,’ she said. ‘I require clothing and I owe Sir George Gordon for my travel here.’
‘I assume your father made arrangements with his agents here for you to draw on funds?’
‘Yes. Yes, he did.’ So, Bradon was not taking on the responsibility of repaying Sir George. Was he mean, penny-pinching or seriously short of money? Her eyes strayed over the ornate furnishing, the silk curtains, the yards of leather-bound, gilt-embossed books. An aristocratic family wealthy in land and property and possessions without a silver shilling to spare, no doubt. The expensive father out pursuing his pleasures while the prudent son ensured the family finances.
Averil tried to keep the judgemental thoughts from her mind. It was not her business how they came to this. It was up to her to try and make sure they were towed out of the River Tick before her children reached their majority, that was all.
‘Papa’s bankers and lawyers are in the City. May I have a carriage to call on them?’
‘Of course.’ He got up and came around the desk to stand beside her. Averil felt compelled to stand, too. ‘I will accompany you. I assume you will need someone to vouch for you, with all your possessions and papers gone.’
‘Yes. I suppose I will. Thank you.’
He took her hand, lifted it, then brushed his lips over her knuckles. She forced herself to stand still and accept the caress, if that is what it could be called. ‘We will set out after luncheon. The sooner you can replace your trousseau, the better. Mama will lend you her dresser to guide you to all the best places once you have some money.’
Averil spared a fleeting thought for the silks and muslins, the jewellery and shawls, the piles of linens that she had painstakingly monogrammed as they sailed across miles of oceans. All gone, all lost, along with her dreams.
‘Thank you. I will go and put on my bonnet.’ He released her hand. And put any hopes I ever had of love and romance firmly in a box and throw away the key.