Ruined By The Reckless Viscount
‘As this is, too. It’s exactly the same.’
‘If you get caught—’
Florentia cut her off. ‘But I won’t. I promise.’
‘My God, I can’t believe I should even be considering this. I can’t believe you might talk me into it.’
‘Try, Maria. Try for my sake.’
‘All right. I’ll visit the wigmakers if you fashion a drawing of your wants and I can simply say it is for a play we are putting on at Albany for Christmas. Did you have a preference for a colour?’
‘Black.’ Flora was astonished to hear such certainty coming from her mouth. She could mimic Bryson because she had known him so very well, his habits, his stance, the way he walked and watched. His hair had been golden just like hers, so she needed something distinctly different.
‘And I would require some height inbuilt in the boots. I have seen that done so it should not be difficult.’
Maria groaned. ‘I cannot believe that we could even be contemplating this farce, Florentia. God, if we are discovered.’
‘It will never happen.’
‘Well, Roy needs to know at least. I will not lie to him.’
* * *
Flora walked to the stream late that afternoon through the small bushes and the flowering shrubs, through the birdsong and the rustle of the wind, through air filled with the smell of spring on its edge and the promise of renewed warmth.
She had always come here to think ever since the time she had returned in disgrace from London.
The glade reminded her slightly of the woods she had run through besides the North Road as she had tried to escape the carriage of the man who had abducted her.
Her kidnapper.
That was how she named him now and here she allowed him to come into her thoughts just as surely as she had banished him from everywhere else.
His smile was what she remembered most, slightly lopsided and very real. He had a dimple in his chin, too, a detail that she had forgotten about until, when painting from memory, she had rediscovered the small truths of him.
Beautiful. She had thought him such then and she still did now, his short hair marked in browns of all shades from russet to chestnut and threaded in lighter gold and wheat.
She wondered why she still recalled him with such a preciseness, but she knew the answer of course. He had died for a mistake, his own admittedly, but still... He was like a martyr perishing for a cause that was unknown, his blood running on the forecourt of the inn in runnels of red, the dust blending indistinctly at the sides so that it was darker. She had used that colour when she had drawn him, that particular red on the outlines when first she had formed his face and body on canvas and now even when the painting was finished the colour was a part of who he was, both his strength and his weakness.
She’d bundled up the portrait with its power of grace and covered it with a sheet before placing it at the very back of her large wardrobe. Often, though, she looked at him even as she meant not to. Often she lifted the fabric and ran her finger across his cheek, along his nose and around the line of his dimpled chin.
It made her feel better, this care of him, this gentle caress, this attention that she had not allowed him in life even after he saved her from the dogs and wrapped his jacket around her shoulders to deter the chill of spring.
Contrasts. That was the worst of it. The disparity of caring or not.
Her kidnapper had made her into a woman of detail and fear. He had changed her from believing in the hope of life to one who dreaded it. At times like this sitting in her private grove she wondered if perhaps this introspection was exactly the thing that made her take up the brush, for she had never lifted one until she had returned in shame to Albany Manor after her fateful London ruin.
Seeing yellow paint on her nail, she scraped it off with her thumb, the small flakes falling into drops of water caught on a green waxy leaf and turning the colour yellow. With care she tipped it over and the hue ran into the mud and the soil, swallowed up until it ceased to exist at all.
Like him. Perhaps?
Sometimes she imagined he still lived, scarred and angry, as closeted away as she was, afraid to be seen and exposed. Did a wife live with him now? Had he found a woman who might listen with her whole heart to the story of his narrow escape and then stroke his cheek in comfort, just as she tended to the image in the painting? A mistake to forget about, or to laugh over.
Crossroads for them both.
Him in death and her in life. Everyone seemed to have moved on since for good or for bad. Her father to his penchant for sickness, her mother in her willingness to play his nursemaid, Maria in her love of a husband who suited her entirely.
Everybody but her, stuck as she was in this constant state of inertia.
That was the trouble, of course, the puzzling hopelessness of everything that had happened. The scandal she could have coped with easily. It was the grief of it all that had flattened her. Everything for nothing.
Picking up a stick, she began to draw lines in the earth. Six lines for the years. She wanted to add a seventh because this next one would be no different. Then she embellished the lines with twelve circles each representing the months. Seventy-two of them. A quarter of her lifetime.
She wanted to live again. She wanted to smile and laugh and dance. She wanted to wear pretty clothes and jewellery and have long dinners under candlelight. But she couldn’t, couldn’t make herself take that first little step out and about.
It had got worse, her lack of air. In winter now she gasped and wheezed when she walked further than she ought to.
Sometimes she wondered if she were indeed addled by it all. Pushing that thought away, she concentrated on another.
Mr Frederick Rutherford.
With care she raised herself up on to her heels and walked across the clearing with a swagger, her head held high, her shoulders stiff. Then she ambled back, this time with a stick in hand shaped from a branch that she had stripped from a tree.
The accoutrements of a gentleman. Better. It felt more...right. So many parts made up a man, though. Stride. Voice. Arrogance. Certainty. Disdain.
She walked faster as though she was important, as though in the wasting of even the tiniest of seconds there lay a travesty. Men about town knew where they were going. They did not falter. They acted as though everybody might wish to know of them and their opinions. There was a certain freedom in being such a one as that.
Lengthening her stride, she tried again and again, all the while adjusting things slightly so that it felt more real, this person whom she was becoming.
She could do it. With spectacles to hide her eyes and a moustache to disguise her lips. A neckcloth tied in the high manner would see to the rest. The cane her grandfather had owned sat unused in the attic, just another prop to draw the eye away from her with its silver dimpled ball and dark walnut wood.
Everything was beginning to fall into bands of colour. Her wig. The clothes she would sport. The heightened leather Hessians that would easily come to her knees.
Like a painting established layer by layer, of substance and structure. Drawing the eyes. Finding the essence. Creating the illusion.
Chapter Three
‘I think you are a veritable tease, Lord Winterton, and if half the things that are said of you are true I should imagine you find us very dull.’
James glanced down at Miss Julia Heron, soft blonde ringlets falling around her face and smiling brown eyes. One of the beauties of the Season, it was said, though there was a wide ring of other young ladies around her who looked every bit as charming. He wished they would not look at him as if he was the answer to all their heartfelt dreams. He wished he could have simply crossed the floor and left, to feel the rain on his face and puddles beneath his feet, and smell the green of London in the spring.
How he had missed it.
His neck ached as it always did at about this time of the night and he breathed through the pain with a measured practice.
Lady Florentia Hale-Burton was not here, he was sure of it, and from what he had managed to find out about the family in the last few weeks he could well imagine why. His actions on the road across from Hyde Park had ruined the youngest daughter of the Earl of Albany. For marriage. For the hope of a family. For life. For ever.
Her sister was present, though. He had met Lady Maria Warrenden, once Hale-Burton, on the arm of one of his oldest friends as he had alighted from his coach. Roy Warrenden had introduced his wife with pride, giving him her unmarried name to place her in a context and James prayed his surprise and shock had not been noticeable.
She’d showed no recognition of him or his name at all which was a comforting thing leaving him with a decided uncertainty as to what he wanted to do about the whole sordid affair. An apology to the Hale-Burtons would be a good start, but by all accounts the father had taken to bed with a broken spirit and he could well see that his very presence would be a nightmare for the entire family; a memory of a time they would have no want to recall or relive.
Lady Florentia Hale-Burton would be twenty-three now or twenty-four, he thought, and gossip had it she resided in Kent and only occasionally visited town.
James looked around, wishing he could simply leave and figure out his choices in peace, but as it had been only an hour since his arrival he thought any withdrawal would incite comment. Better to have not come at all, he thought, as he swallowed his drink.
Miss Heron before him was weaving her fan this way and that, a dance of wonder he found himself mesmerised with and repelled by, the female tool of flirtation and provocation holding no interest for him.
He had come home to England half the man who had left it, but with twenty times the fortune. There was a certain irony to be found in all he had lost when weighed against that which he had gained, here in a place where money mattered most.
‘You promised me this dance, my lord.’ There was a note of supplication in Julia Heron’s eyes. He could not remember making such a promise and frowned slightly.
It was the way of the London set, he supposed, a world of chimera and delusion underpinned by a steely determination to marry well.
‘I’ve written it in, Lord Winterton,’ Miss Heron insisted, showing him the name placed in small and precise letters upon her dance card.
With a nod, he acquiesced. He’d never particularly liked dancing, but as the orchestra began into a quadrille he was at least grateful that it was not a waltz.
Moving on to the dance floor, James saw that many patrons watched them, smiling in that particular way of those who imagined an oncoming union. The jaded anger inside him rose with the thought and he pressed it down. A crowded ballroom was not the place for excessive introspection or regret.
As he fished about for a subject that might interest the young woman beside him came up with a topic of her own.
‘Papa is having us all drawn by Mr Frederick Rutherford, the artist, my lord. He hopes the portraits will be begun as soon as possible.’
The words were filled with a delight tinged in trepidation.
‘Have you seen anything at all of his work, Lord Winterton?’
James shook his head, the heady world of art a long way from anything he’d ever been interested in. ‘But I am sure he will capture your likeness with alacrity.’
The girl’s face fell. ‘Well, in truth he tends to embellish things with his own interpretation, though Papa says he cannot imagine the man wanting to do so with us.’
‘Because perfection cannot be improved upon?’ He heard the tone of irony quite plainly in his voice, but Julia Heron simply trilled and blushed, her hand tightening around his as her glance came fully upon him.
His heart sank further. He would need to be careful if he were to escape the gossip so often associated with these soirées and emanating from even the simplest of familiarities.
His fortune had singled him out now as highly sought after husband material and if beneath his clothes there lay deeper shades of tragedy no one else here knew of it.
The older Herons were watching them closely, another younger daughter of the same ilk beside them glowering at her sister. When the dance brought them together again Julia had a further question waiting.
‘Are you here in London long, my lord?’
‘Just for the next few weeks, I think, Miss Heron. I am hoping to move west.’
‘To Atherton Abbey?’
‘I see you have heard the rumour.’
‘Who has not, Lord Winterton, for the Abbey is said to be one of the loveliest homes in all of Herefordshire as well as one of the most expensive.’
James gritted his teeth and smiled, glad as the complexity of the quadrille pushed them apart again, though the other woman on one point of the square was unexpected and he tensed as he saw her visage.
Lady Maria Hale-Burton, now the new Lady Warrenden, smiled at him politely. She was taller than her sister and much more rounded. Her hair was darker, too. He waited to see if in private she might mention the plight of her sibling in connection with him, but she did not, chancing instead on a mundane and social propriety.
‘I hope you are enjoying your return to London after so long away, my lord.’ Her voice was soft and carried a slight lisp.
‘I am, thank you. It was good to see your husband again. We were at school together.’
She was about to answer, but the change in the figure took him back to Julia Heron who claimed his arm in the final flurry of the dance, her colour high and her smile wide with enjoyment.
Accompanying the girl back to her parents he gave her his thanks and went to find Roy Warrenden, grateful to see the Baron sitting at a table with a bottle of wine before him and a number of empty glasses, though he was in full conversation with another James had no knowledge of. Maria Warrenden now joined them, brought back to her husband on the arm of an older man whom she promptly thanked. As her dancing partner left she sat down and made her own observations.
‘Roy said you led him astray more than once, Lord Winterton, but your presence here has made his night. He is usually desperate to get home early.’ She laughed heartily, a joyous natural sound that was nothing at all like Julia Heron’s practised society giggle.
‘Are your parents here tonight, Lady Warrenden?’ He’d looked around the room before just in case the visage of Florentia Hale-Burton’s father should be peering back at him, his face full of violent memory, and had been relieved to see no sign of the man.
‘No, I am afraid they seldom venture far from Albany Manor in Kent any more. Papa suffers from bad health, you see, and Mama feels it her duty to be there to wipe his brow.’
‘A woman of responsibility, then?’
‘Or one who enjoys playing the martyr?’ Close up the resemblance between Maria Warrenden and her sister was more noticeable and he found himself observing her with interest even as Roy Warrenden stood and clapped him on the back.
‘It’s good to have you in England, Winter. I saw that my wife managed to find you in the quadrille. She said she was going to try.’ His glance went further afield. ‘I should probably warn you that the Misses Heron are fairly overwhelming and are not ones to take no for an answer lightly either.’
Glancing over, James was concerned to see them all looking his way, eyes full of the hope of more than he had offered them.
Maria laughed at their interest. ‘The Heron girls are handsome, granted, but if I was a man I should not wish to wake up to only beauty each morning.’
Her husband concurred. ‘No, indeed not, my love. Beauty and brains is what you are after, Winter, and the ability to be entertained for every moment of your life. Miss Heron looked particularly chatty in your company?’
‘She was telling me of a portrait she is having done by Mr Frederick Rutherford. Seems the artist holds a reputation here that is more than salutary and he has been commissioned to paint the three sisters.’
Lady Warrenden choked on the drink she had just taken a sip of, but it was the look of consternation in her eyes that was the most arresting.
‘The man is indeed talented.’ Roy had now taken up the conversation and James had the idea it was to give his wife time to recover her equilibrium. ‘But I doubt the Herons will entice the fellow to London, for from my knowledge Rutherford does not do sittings in person.’
‘No, he certainly does not.’ Maria Warrenden was shaking. James could see the tremble of her hands as she placed the glass down on the table, though she immediately dropped them into the thick fabric of her skirt and out of sight. ‘He would be appalled at such an idea, believe me, Viscount Winterton, and I cannot understand how they could think such a thing might happen.’
‘You sound as though you know him well?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Only a little,’ she returned and changed the subject entirely. ‘We will be walking in Hyde Park tomorrow, my lord. Perhaps you might wish to accompany us for the foliage of the trees there this spring is particularly beautiful.’
The past seemed to collide with the present and James shook his head. ‘I am out of town tomorrow, I am afraid.’
‘Of course.’ Maria Warrenden looked uncertain. He would have liked to have asked her of the health of her sister, but could find no way to broach the subject. Perhaps if he met Roy alone one day he could bring her up in a roundabout sort of way. He had no mandate to be truly interested and besides Florentia Hale-Burton could have no wish ever to meet up with him again if the scale of the scandal that had ensued at their last meeting was anything to go by.
He wondered if the youngest Hale-Burton daughter was married and had a family now. He wondered if she was happy...
* * *
Her sister came to her room late that evening, having returned from the Allans’ ball full of a bustling gossip.
‘Lord Winterton graced the ball this evening, Florentia, and the Heron girls were all over him, though in truth I did not see him complaining. I think he had danced with each of them by the end of the evening.’
‘Winterton is the Viscount newly home from the Americas?’ Flora had heard of the man, of course. He was the newest and most interesting addition to the ton, a soldier who had made his fortune in the acquisition of timbers from the east coast and transported them back to London.
‘That’s the one and he is every bit as beautiful as they all say him to be. It’s his eyes, I think, a true clear and pale green. You would love to paint him, Flora, but that’s not my only news. No, indeed, my greatest morsel is that the oldest Heron girl, Miss Julia, apparently told Winterton that Mr Frederick Rutherford would be painting all three daughters at their town house in Portland Square across the next few weeks.’
Florentia put down her book. A true clear and pale green and every bit as beautiful as they say he is. The world tilted slightly and went out of focus, so much so that one of her hands twisted around the base of the chair on which she sat in an attempt to keep herself anchored.
‘Are you all right, Flora? You suddenly look awfully pale.’ Her sister moved closer as Flora made an attempt to smile.
‘I am tired, I suppose, for London is a busy and frantic place when you have been away from it as long as I have.’ Her heart was racing, the clammy sheen of sweat sliding between her breasts. Could it be him? Could her kidnapper have survived? Was he here now in London, living somewhere only a handful of miles from the Warrenden town house? She made an effort to focus.
‘Mr Alfred Ward did ask me to consider the Heron commission in a letter he sent after we met him on Monday, but I declined.’
‘Well, it seems he has not relayed your answer to the prospective clients.’ Maria removed her hat and shook out her hair. ‘I knew something would go wrong with this scheme of yours, Flora. I knew that we could not trust Mr Ward with one meeting. He is a schemer and he wants more and more of you for I could tell from his demeanour and by all the words he did not say. Goodness, if he keeps this up you will be unmasked summarily and then what?’
‘He is a greedy man, Maria, but also an astute one. I told him if I am pressured too much I am inclined to bouts of severe melancholy. I inferred I was...brittle, I suppose, a highly sensitive artist who is not of this world so to speak. The cough helped, I think, though it has left me with a sore throat and a hoarse voice from having to do it so much.’
Maria looked aghast. ‘We should leave London then and just go home.’
Florentia frowned for suddenly she did not want to desert the city with such haste.
A true clear and pale green.
The words kept repeating over and over.
‘Is Lord Winterton married?’
Her sister’s mouth simply dropped open. ‘No. At least I do not think so. He is an old friend of Roy’s, so I could ask him of it. Why would you possibly be interested?’
Ignoring that query, she asked another of her own. ‘But he will be staying here? In London, I mean.’
‘He’s rumoured to be acquiring a substantial home somewhere to the west. He is also rumoured to be dangerous.’
‘In what ways?’
‘In every possible way, I should imagine. He is neither for the faint hearted nor for the timid. He looks as though he could eat the whole world up should he want to and everyone there at the Allans’ ball was a little afraid of him. It’s his wealth, I suppose, and the fact that he is said to have a scar upon his neck that makes it appear as though his head was almost torn completely off from his shoulders at some point long ago. He wears his neckcloth high to hide it.’
‘I see.’ Florentia stood and turned towards the mirror on one wall of her room.
For she did see. Everything. Too much. All of it.
It was him. She knew it. Knew it from the bottom of her racing heart.
She could ruin him in an instant as surely as he had ruined her. She could give her truth out loud and watch him suffer as she had, this lord of the ton with all his wealth and his connections and his beautifulness.
She felt sick and scared and elated and horrified. Every emotion melded into shock and then shattered again into coldness and fear.
But she could not just go home and leave it. To fester and burn and hurt her. Not again. She could not weather another six years like the last ones. The drawing she’d done in the dust of her grove came into recall. Seventy-two months. So very many lines.
‘Did you speak to him, Maria? To Lord Winterton?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he knew your name? Your unmarried one, I mean?’
‘I suppose so. Yes, I remember Roy introduced me by using it. Why? Why should that matter, Florentia? What is it that you are not telling me?’
But Florentia had ceased to listen altogether, lost as she was in her own desperate worry. Did Lord Winterton remember her? Had he recognised the Hale-Burton name? Had the world already tilted in a way that could not be stopped or altered?
The smallness of the room here in the Warrenden town house on Grosvenor Square suddenly felt like a trap and she longed to be out of it, walking and thinking.
She wanted her grove of trees and the soil of Albany Manor, but she wanted the truth even more.
Six years of hiding. It was enough. She just could not do it any more. Not for a day or a moment or a second. She needed to see Winterton, to look upon his face and understand what it was that lay between them, what it was she needed to do.
She could confront him personally or amongst a selected company and yet even that thought made her blanch. Her protections were no longer in place. Her father was ill and Maria’s husband was an old friend. If she told her sister Winterton was the one who had kidnapped her, Roy would imagine it his duty to issue him a challenge and gain a penance.