Those Scandalous Ravenhursts Volume 3
‘My lord.’ He came in, as the waiter closed the door behind him, and inclined his head to his host.
‘Allow me to make you known to Lady Dereham, Lady Standon, my daughter Lady Maude—’
Papa is pretending we have not met, Maude realised, returning the bow with slight curtsy, while her father completed the introductions and waved Eden to the chair by his side.
And then she realised what was different about him. Gone was the exotic theatre manager, gone too was the working man in his shirtsleeves, and in their place was a perfectly conventional gentleman in well-cut evening formality, a modest ruffle on his white shirt, the dull sheen of garnet satin on his waistcoat and just a hint of sparkle in the strange old ring, his only piece of jewellery. Even his hair had been ruthlessly pomaded and brushed into a fashionable style that distracted the eye from its length.
He is making an effort, she thought, astonished. It had never occurred to her that Eden Hurst might go out of his way to impress her father. Was it because he needed the money, or because he did not want to lose her as…as what? An investor? That was all she could be to him at the moment, surely?
Lord Pangbourne, nobody’s fool, even though he cultivated an appearance of bluff and bluster, had apparently realised that he could hardly explain to a boxful of guests, one of whom was a virtual stranger, that he had invited Mr Hurst there to interview him as a potential business partner for his daughter. He had also, while introductions had been made, managed things so that the men were all sitting to one side of the box and Maude was safely trapped between the other two ladies.
She realised, with sinking heart, that Bel and Jessica had not exaggerated the unconventionality of what she was doing. Gareth and Ashe were regarding Eden with expressions of politely neutrality, but she knew them both too well to be deceived. They were watchful and suspicious and, she feared, disapproving.
‘Good of you to join us,’ her father remarked, pouring champagne. ‘I’m very interested in this new gas lighting you have here. Thinking of installing it myself. What do you think?’
‘I would not put it in my own home, not just yet.’ Eden took the glass, but did not drink. Close to the naval officer’s tanned skin his colouring seemed less exotic. He looked and sounded just like the rest of them, yet he was the focus of more than polite attention. ‘There is an odour, and it is dangerous without proper ventilation. But, in a year or two, I think it will replace oil everywhere.’
Captain Warnham, for whom this was apparently the first sight of gas used inside, joined in the conversation with a remark about the gas lights installed on Westminster Bridge in 1813 and all four men were soon deep into the technicalities.
Maude rolled her eyes at her friends, but Bel smiled and nodded encouragement. And, yes, superficially it was a success. They could have been any group of gentlemen engrossed in discussion, but she sensed relief all round at such a neutral topic that could distance the men from the ladies.
Eden, she realised, had muted his forceful character. He deferred to the older man, held his own with the others, yet it was as though he had turned down the wick on the lamp of his personality.
Clever, Maude thought. He is adapting himself to his company, blending in. She met his eyes across the table. His expression hardly changed, yet she sensed rueful amusement. He knew exactly what he was doing, but he did not seem entirely happy that he was doing it. And he sensed the raised hackles of the other men.
‘We are neglecting the ladies,’ he remarked, bringing all eyes to where his gaze was resting, her face.
‘But I am fascinated by gas lighting,’ she said sweetly, all wide-eyed feminine attentiveness. His lips were definitely quirking now. It was infectious. She bit the inside of her lip to stop herself smiling back. ‘Still, we do not have that much time before the curtain rises again. Will you not tell us about the next piece? My father saw it the last time it was produced in London.’
‘In 1810 at Covent Garden, my lord? We have had to adapt it here, of course, because of the licence, add a short ballet, and some songs, hence our choice of Mrs Furlow in the lead; she has just the voice for it. Still, it is very much the same comedy you will recall from before.’ He uses his voice like an actor, Nell thought, listening to how he spoke, not what he said. It was a deep and flexible voice, shaded with colour. He seemed to have it as much under his control as his face, betraying only what he wanted to show.
Her father was relaxing now; she saw his shoulders shake as he recounted some piece of amusing business from the production he remembered.
The conversation moved on while she was brooding. Gareth must have asked Captain Warnham about his new ship. ‘Do you welcome another commission so far from home?’
‘I am a career officer, I go where I am ordered and may do most good, but in any case I could not turn down the opportunity to make war on pirates. They are everything I loathe.’
‘But are there any left?’ Maude asked. ‘Enough to be a problem?’
‘Not so many now, we have them under control in many areas. But those that remain are the worst of them. And like rats they know we almost have them cornered and that makes them the more vicious. They used to take prisoners for ransom; now they cut their throats and throw them overboard.’
The party fell silent, chilled, Maude sensed, not so much by the horror of what he was describing, but the controlled anger with which he said it.
Bel, the more experienced hostess, picked up the thread of the conversation after a heartbeat had passed and moved them on to safer ground. ‘I love to read the shipping news in the daily papers,’ she remarked. ‘It is so fascinating to see where they have come from to reach us, bearing our luxuries all that way.’
All those luxuries, Maude thought, unfurling her Chinese fan and looking at it with new eyes, brought over huge distances at such risk. She looked up and found Eden was still watching her and was visited by the odd idea that he knew what she was thinking. Then the imagined look of understanding was gone and he rose to his feet.
‘You will excuse me, my lords, ladies. The curtain rises soon.’ He bowed and was gone, his champagne untouched, leaving the crowded box feeling somehow empty.
‘What a pleasant man,’ Bel remarked, carefully not looking in Maude’s direction. ‘Not at all what I would have expected of a theatre proprietor.’
‘Indeed not,’ Jessica added. ‘One can only think that the theatre is becoming so much more respectable these days.’
‘Superficially, perhaps. But it is scarcely eight years since the riots over the changes at Covent Garden,’ Gareth countered. ‘Nor can one call that sort of thing respectable.’ He nodded towards the box opposite where a party of bucks were becoming very familiar indeed with three young women whose manners and clothing clearly proclaimed them to be of the demi-monde. Gareth appeared quite unconscious of the dagger-looks his wife was darting in his direction.
‘And matters will be laxer on the Continent, I have no doubt,’ Ashe added, his eyes resting on the door as though he could still see Eden.
‘Oh, look,’ said Maude with bright desperation, ‘Here come the string players.’ Across from her, Lord Pangbourne appeared sunk in thought.
‘What did you think, Papa?’ Maude ventured as the carriage clattered over the wet cobbles on its way back to Mount Street.
‘Excellent production. In my opinion, adding the songs helped it. It was a lot livelier than I remembered.’
‘Not the play, Papa, although I am pleased you enjoyed it. Mr Hurst.’
‘Surprising chap. Not what I expected.’ Lord Pangbourne fell silent.
‘And?’
‘And I need to sleep on it.’ He sighed gustily. ‘Confound it, Maude, I know I promised you more freedom, but I don’t know what your mother would say if she were here.’
‘Yes, probably,’ Maude ventured. ‘She was very unconventional, was she not, Papa?’
‘Very fast, you mean,’ he said, but she could hear he was smiling. ‘Your mama, my dear, was a handful. And so are you. I don’t like refusing you anything, Maude; I promised your mother I would never make you feel as she did as a girl—caged. But I don’t want to see you hurt too.’
‘Hurt?’ She swallowed hard. He realised her feelings were involved?
‘By any kind of scandal. You can ride out a lot in your position, but that’s an uncommon man you’d be dealing with.’ He certainly is… ‘I’ll sleep on it,’ he pronounced. And with that she knew she would have to be satisfied.
It was not until she was sitting up in bed an hour later that what he had said about her mother sank in. I don’t want to see you hurt too. Mama had been hurt? But by what? Or whom?
Breakfast was not a good time to ask questions about the past, Maude decided, pouring coffee and schooling herself to patience. It would take three cups and the first scan of The Times before she could expect anything from her father.
‘Well,’ he said, pushing back his chair at length and fixing her with a disconcertingly direct look. ‘I was impressed by that Hurst fellow, despite myself. You may invest in that theatre, to the limit that Benson advises, and not a penny more. You will not go backstage after four in the afternoon and you will always, always, go there with a chaperon. He might be a good imitation of a gentleman, but he’s young, he’s ruthless and he’s unconventional. A chaperon at all times—is that clear, Maude? I see no reason to be telling all and sundry about this involvement of yours either.’
‘Yes, Papa.’ Oh, yes, Papa! ‘Thank you. I do believe this will be a worthwhile investment.’
‘It will be if it makes you happy, my dear. Just be prudent, that is all I ask.’
Prudent. That was what Eden declared himself to be, with money at least. Men seemed to set great store by prudence. Maude’s lips curved. Now she had to teach him to be imprudent with his heart. This morning she would write and tell him she had her father’s approval, make an appointment to call with Mr Benson.
Chapter Six
Papa had not been speaking lightly when he had insisted upon a chaperon, Maude thought, torn between amusement and annoyance. Anna, her Sunday best hat squarely on top of her curly mop of hair, was seated in one corner of Eden Hurst’s office, an expression of painful intensity on her face.
As they had alighted from the closed carriage—the one without the crest on the door, Maude had noticed—the maid had assured her, ‘I’ll stick like glue, never you fear, my lady.’
‘Like glue?’ Maude paused on the step up to the stage door and stared at the girl.
‘His lordship said so. He told me he was relying upon me to maintain the proprieties.’ Anna nodded earnestly, her face pink with combined delight at having been spoken to so and alarm at her responsibilities.
‘Indeed.’ Thoughtful, Maude walked in and smiled at the door-keeper. ‘Mr Hurst is expecting me. There will be a gentleman as well.’
The man consulted his ledger. ‘Mr Benson, ma’am? Came in five minutes ago. I’ll take you through, ma’am, if you’ll just wait a minute while I get the boy to watch the door.’ Maude shook her head.
‘No, it is quite all right, I know the way, Mr—?’
‘Doggett, ma’am.’
‘Mr Doggett. This is my maid, Anna—you will probably be seeing quite a lot of us from now on.’ The man knuckled his forehead and grinned, revealing several gaps in his teeth, as they walked past.
‘The stage door-keeper is an important man backstage,’ Maude explained as they walked along the corridor to the Green Room. This passageway had been painted green up to the dado rail, then cream above with prints of theatrical subjects hung on the walls, no doubt in acknowledgement of the class of visitors to the Green Room. ‘You will need to speak to Doggett when you want to call the carriage, or if you need to go out on an errand for me. He keeps an eye on things and makes sure no riffraff come in.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Anna nodded solemnly. Maude hoped she was absorbing the idea that it would be all right to leave Maude from time to time. It was going to be impossible to establish any sort of relationship with Eden Hurst with the maid always at her side.
‘You’ll be able to reassure his lordship about how well run and respectable things are here,’ Maude continued chattily.
‘Oh, yes, my lady. I’ll do that.’ So, she was expecting to report back.
Bless him, Papa was no fool, however indulgent he might be, Maude thought, half her mind on the proposals Mr Benson was outlining, half on her tactics for dealing with Anna.
Eden Hurst was silent, listening. His head was bent over his hands clasped on the desk, his eyes apparently fixed on the gold tooling around the edge of the green leather top.
Benson put down his pen and sat back, too experienced to prolong his presentation.
‘Reduce the return by one percent and I will consider it,’ Eden said at last, looking up, his eyes clashing with hers, not the attorney’s.
‘By one quarter of one percent,’ Maude said promptly.
The dark eyes looked black; there was no softening tilt of the lips or warmth in his voice as he responded, ‘Three quarters of one percent.’
‘Half.’ She felt as though she had been running, the breath was tight in her chest and it was an effort to keep her voice cool and steady. This was, somehow, not about the money.
She was meticulous in keeping all hint of feminine charm out of her voice, her expression. When she was buying supplies for the charity or coaxing donations from patrons she would use whatever pretty wiles worked—wide-eyed admiration, a hint of chagrin, a touch of flirtation. But with this man she sensed they would not impress and he would think less of her for it.
‘I will meet you halfway,’ she added.
‘Will you indeed, Lady Maude?’
‘But no further.’ Beside her Benson shifted, uneasy. She did not turn her eyes from Eden Hurst’s face. It was like trying to outstare ice. Then slowly, subtly, she was aware of heat and realised she was blushing and that those cold, dark eyes were warming, smiling, although the rest of his face was impassive. There was no air left in her lungs now, but she was not going to give in, she was not…
Anna coughed, Benson put his pen down and the spell was broken. Which of them looked away, Maude had no idea, but Eden was on his feet, his hand extended across the wide desk. ‘Come, then,’ he said. ‘Halfway.’
No man had ever offered her his hand to seal an agreement before. It was not done. A gentleman told her what he would do and she took his word for it. A tradesman agreed a price and bowed her from his premises. Men shook hands on deals with other men. Some instinct made her pull off her glove as she stood and took his hand. It was warm and dry and she could feel calluses on the palm as it closed around her fingers, firm, positive, but careful not to squeeze hard as it enveloped them.
A lady allowed her gloved hand to remain passive in a man’s for a few seconds while he bowed respectfully and then released her, or placed her fingertips on his forearm so he could escort her. A lady did not grasp a man’s hand in hers and return pressure with her naked fingers as she was doing now. He must be able to feel her pulse thudding, she was certain.
Mr Benson cleared his throat, her hand was released and they sat down as though nothing had happened. She had finalised a business arrangement—why did she feel almost as disorientated as she had when he kissed her?
‘I will amend the documents now.’ The attorney produced a travelling inkwell and pen and began to alter the documents before him. Maude sat silent while the nib scratched over the paper, occupying herself with removing her other glove and tucking them both into her reticule.
‘There.’ Mr Benson finished, pushed one set across the desk to each of them and handed his own pen to Maude. ‘If you will read them through and sign, then exchange copies.’
Maude Augusta Edith Templeton, Maude wrote in her strong flowing hand. It was not a ladylike signature, her governess had complained, trying vainly to make her produce something smaller and altogether less assertive. She initialled the other pages as she had been taught and handed them to Eden, taking his in return.
Eden Francesco Tancredi Hurst, it said in writing equally as black and considerably more forceful. Maude signed below it, the sudden image of a marriage register flashing through her mind. ‘Francesco Tancredi?’ she said before she remembered the rumour about his father. It must be true.
‘Augusta Edith?’ he retorted.
‘Great-aunts.’ He did not respond with any explanation of his two very Italian names.
‘I will call at the bank and arrange for the transfer of funds.’ Mr Benson was on his feet, pushing his papers together. ‘May I take you up, Lady Maude?’
‘Thank you, no. I have my carriage.’
He bowed over her hand before clapping on his hat. ‘My lady. Mr Hurst, I bid you good day.’
Eden stood while she sat down again. ‘Would you like to see around behind the scenes now?’
‘Yes, please. But first—’ But first she wanted to speak to him alone and there was the small matter of one attentive lady’s maid sitting like a watchdog in the corner. ‘I would love a cup of tea.’ Eden reached for the bell. ‘Anna can go and find that little maid—Millie, wasn’t it? Run along and ask Doggett at the stage door where to find her, Anna—and no gossiping with anyone else, mind.’
Trained obedience had the maid on her feet and halfway out of the door before she realised the conflict in her orders. ‘But, my lady, Lord Pangbourne said—’
‘And you are doing very well, Anna,’ Maude praised. ‘I will be sure to tell him so.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Beaming, she hurried out, closing the door behind her.
‘So, your father has set a watchdog to guard you? Not a very fierce one.’ He strolled round the desk and hitched one hip on the edge, looking down at her.
‘No, she is not, although she is very serious about it. I wanted to say thank you for Monday night.’
He did not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘The counterfeit English gentleman?’
‘The perfectly genuine one,’ she retorted.
‘Oh, yes?’ He smiled down at her, the first time she had seen him really smile. His teeth were very white, very even and, like the rest of him, looked as though they would bite. Hard. ‘You expected the earring, or worse, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Maude admitted. ‘Actually, I rather like it, but it might have raised eyebrows.’
‘I will confess I was very tempted to go completely to the other extreme and give you my version of the old-school actor-manager.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ she asked, intrigued.
‘Because, upon reflection, I found I did not want to scandalise your father to the point where he forbade you to interfere with my theatre. You are my grit, remember? I expect us to produce pearls.’
He was being deliberately provocative. Interfere, indeed! She refused to rise to it, let alone react to being compared to a piece of grit. ‘Describe how you would have turned into the old-school actor-manager,’ she said instead.
‘A shirt with enough ruffles to make you a ballgown, very tight evening breeches and a wasp-waisted tail coat with exaggerated satin lapels.’ He sketched the clothes over his body with his hands. ‘I would have raided Madame’s dressing room for a large diamond ear drop and her curling tongs.’ He twirled a lock of shoulder-length hair between his fingers. ‘A touch of lamp black to line my eyes and the oil, of course.’
‘The oil?’
‘Olive oil. I would have oiled my hair and my skin. Your father would have thrown you over his shoulder and swept out of the theatre, believe me.’
‘I believe you,’ Maude said appreciatively. ‘I would like to see that look, one day. But oil?’
‘I will give you some. I import it for my own use. It hardly gets used for cooking here in England, although it should be—for both cooking and salads. But Madame bathes with it, treats her hair with it. It is excellent for dry skin in winter weather.’
‘But doesn’t it smell horrible?’ Maude wrinkled her nose, imagining all the sorts of cooking oil she had come across. The image of Eden, his naked body glistening, kept sliding into her imagination. Much better to think of nasty, smelly grease.
‘Here.’ He reached down into a wooden crate standing by his desk and produced a bottle full of greenish-golden liquid. ‘A consignment has just come in.’ The cork popped. ‘Hold out your hand.’
As Maude hesitated he reached out and lifted her hand. The oil was cool as it trickled into her palm, forming a tiny pool no more than a gold sovereign’s width across. ‘Smell.’ He set the bottle down, glimmering in the light from the window like a bottled lake of enchantment.
Her hand still cupped in Eden’s, Maude dipped her head and sniffed. ‘Earth and fruit and…green.’
‘Taste it.’
‘No.’ She shook her head as though he had asked her to drink an enchanter’s potion.
In response he bent and licked the little pool of oil straight from her hand. His tongue sweeping across her palm was hot, strong and utterly shocking. Maude gave a little gasp and tried to pull away, only to be held firmly. ‘Careful, you will mark your gown.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her palm clean. ‘Are you sure you do not want to taste it?’ His mouth was so close to hers, his lips slicked with the golden oil. Of course, he could mean he would pour her a little more.
And, yes, she wanted to taste it, warm on his lips. Summoning up reserves of willpower she had no idea she possessed, Maude said calmly, ‘This is why Papa insists upon a chaperon, Mr Hurst.’ He was looking deep into her eyes, his own amused, mocking. Hot.
‘Wise man, Maude.’
She had dreamed of hearing her given name on his lips. Caution, tactics, pride made her stare at him haughtily. ‘I have not allowed you to address me so familiarly, Mr Hurst.’ She spoiled the effect somewhat by tugging at his restraining hand. ‘Will you please let me go!’
He released her and went back to his own side of the desk. ‘But we are partners, Maude.’
‘Business partners,’ she said reprovingly as the door opened to admit Anna and the maid Millie with her huge tea tray. ‘Thank you, Anna. Why do you not go with Millie and find some refreshments of your own?’
The girls had placed the tea tray in front of her, so she began to pour, trying to think of some topic of conversation that would neither be stilted nor provocative.
‘Your cook uses the olive oil, then?’
‘My cook regards it as a foreign frippery, not to be compared to good English lard.’ He took the cup and saucer, shaking his head at the proffered cream jug. ‘If I want Italian food, I must cook it myself.’
‘You cook?’ It was unheard of.
‘Country food,’ Eden said with a shrug, but he was smiling with remembered pleasure, not defensively.
‘Italian country food?’ How much could she ask without revealing she had heard the rumour about his parentage? ‘How very unusual.’
‘I lived in an Italian palazzo until I was fourteen,’ Eden said. ‘In the kitchens and the stables, I should say, because that was where I was consigned. Both my cooking and my Italian are on the coarse side.’
He had grown up in his father’s house, then? But with the servants? The use of the word consigned was both unusual and bitter. But she could risk asking no more. His face as he drank the cooling tea had become shuttered.
‘May I take that tour behind the scenes now?’ Maude asked. ‘Or have you other business to take care of?’