Читать книгу: «Tallie's Knight»

Chapter One

London, February 1803

‘I want you to help me find a wife, Tish.’

‘Oh, certainly. Whose wife are you after?’ responded Laetitia flippantly, trying to cover her surprise. It was not like her self-sufficient cousin Magnus to ask help of anyone.

His chill grey stare bit into her. ‘I meant a bride. I find my own amours, thank you,’ said Magnus stiffly.

‘A bride? You? I don’t believe it, Magnus! You’ve hardly even talked to a respectable female in years—’

‘Which is why I require your assistance now. I wish the marriage to take place as soon as possible.’

‘As soon as possible? Heavens! You will have the matchmaking mamas in a tizzy!’ Laetitia sat back in her chair and regarded her cousin with faintly malicious amusement, elegantly pencilled eyebrows raised in mock surprise. ‘The impregnable Lord d’Arenville, on the scramble for a bride?’ Her rather hard blue eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘May I ask what has brought this on? I mean, seeking a bride is unexceptional enough—you will have to set up your nursery some time soon—but such unseemly haste suggests…There is no…ah…financial necessity for this marriage, is there, Magnus?’

Magnus frowned repressively. ‘Do not be ridiculous, Tish. No, it is as you have suggested—I have decided to set up my nursery. I want children.’

‘Heirs, you mean, Magnus. Sons are what you need. You wouldn’t want a string of girls, would you?’

Magnus didn’t reply. A string of girls didn’t sound at all bad, he thought. Little girls with big clear eyes, ruining his neckcloths while telling him long, incomprehensible stories. But sons would be good, too, he thought, recalling Freddie’s sturdy-legged boy, Sam.

The issue of getting an heir was, in fact, the last thing on his mind, even though he was the last of a very distinguished name. Until his journey to Yorkshire it had been a matter of perfect indifference to Magnus if his name and title ended with him. They had, after all, brought him nothing but misery throughout his childhood and youth.

However, far easier to let society believe that d’Arenville required an heir than that a small, sticky moppet had found an unexpected chink in his armour. It was ridiculous, Magnus had told himself a thousand times. He didn’t need anything. Or anyone. He never had and he never would. He’d learned that lesson very young.

But the chink remained. As did the memory of a sleeping, trustful child in his arms. And a soft little finger curiously tracing a line down his cheek.

It was a pity he’d had to ask Laetitia’s assistance. He’d never liked her, and saw her only as often as duty or coincidence demanded. But someone had to introduce him to an eligible girl, damn it! If he wanted children he had to endure the distasteful rigmarole of acquiring a wife, and Laetitia could help expedite the matter with the least fuss and bother.

He returned to the point of issue. ‘You will assist me, Tish?’

‘What exactly did you have in mind? Almack’s? Balls, routs and morning calls?’ She laughed. ‘I must confess, I cannot imagine you doing the pretty, with all the fond mamas looking on, but it will be worth it, if only for the entertainment.’

He shuddered inwardly at the picture she conjured up, but his face remained impassive and faintly disdainful. ‘No, not quite. I thought a house party might do the trick.’

‘A house party?’ She shuddered delicately. ‘I loathe the country at this time of year.’

Magnus shrugged. ‘It needn’t be for long. A week or so will do.’

‘A week!’ Laetitia almost shrieked. ‘A week to court a bride! Lord, the ton will never stop talking about it.’

Magnus clenched his jaw. If there had been any other way he would have walked out then and there. But his cousin was a young, apparently respectable, society matron—exactly what he required. No one else could so easily introduce him to eligible young ladies. And she could help him circumvent the tedium of the dreaded marriage mart—courting under the eyes of hundreds. He shuddered inwardly again. Laetitia might be a shallow featherbrain with a taste for malicious gossip, and he disliked having to ask for her assistance in anything, but she was all he had.

‘Will you do it?’ he repeated.

Laetitia’s delicately painted features took on a calculating look. Magnus was familiar with the expression; he usually encountered it on the faces of less respectable females, though he’d first learnt it from his mother. He relaxed. This aspect of the female of the species was one he knew how to deal with.

‘It might be awkward for me to get away—the Season may not have started, but we have numerous engagements…’ She glanced meaningfully at the over-mantel mirror, the gilt frame of which bore half a dozen engraved invitations.

‘And to organise a house party at Manningham at such short notice…’ She sighed. ‘Well, it is a great deal of work, and I would have to take on extra help, you know…and George might not like it, for it will be very expens—’

‘I will cover all expenses, of course,’ Magnus interrupted. ‘And I’ll make it worth your while, too, Laetitia. Would diamonds make it any easier to forgo your balls and routs for a week or two?’

Laetitia pursed her lips, annoyed at his bluntness but unable to resist the bait. ‘What—?’

‘Necklace, earrings and bracelet.’ His cold grey eyes met hers with cynical indifference. Laetitia bridled at his cool certainty.

‘Oh, Magnus, how vulgar you are. As if I would wish to be paid for assisting my dearest cous—’

‘Then you don’t want the diamonds?’

‘No, no, no. I didn’t say that. Naturally, if you care to present me with some small token…’

‘Good, then it’s decided. You invite half a dozen girls—’

‘—and their mamas.’

A faint grimace disturbed the cool impassivity of his expression. ‘I suppose so. Anyway, you invite them, and I’ll choose one.’

Laetitia shuddered delicately. ‘So cold-blooded, Magnus. No wonder they call you The Ic—’

His freezing look cut her off in midsentence. He stood up to leave.

‘You cannot intend to leave yet, surely?’ said Laetitia.

He regarded her in faint puzzlement. ‘Why not? It is all decided, is it not?’

‘But which girls do you want me to invite?’ she demanded through her teeth.

Magnus looked at her with blank surprise. He shrugged. ‘Damn it, Tish, I don’t know. That’s your job.’ He walked towards the door.

‘I don’t believe it! You want me to choose your bride for you?’ she shrieked shrilly.

Faint irritation appeared in his eyes. ‘No, I’ll choose her from the girls you pick out. Lord, Tish, haven’t you got it straight yet? What else have we been talking about for the last fifteen minutes?’

Laetitia stared at him in stupefaction. He was picking out a bride with no more care than he would take to buy a horse. Less, actually. Magnus was very particular about his horseflesh.

‘Are…I mean, do you have any special requirements?’ she said at last.

Magnus sat down again. He had not really thought past the idea of children, but it was a fair request, he supposed. He thought for a moment. ‘She must be sound, of course…with good bloodlines, naturally. Umm…good teeth, reasonably intelligent, but with a placid temperament…and wide enough hips—for childbearing, you know. I think that about covers it.’

Laetitia gritted her teeth. ‘We are talking about a lady, are we not? Or are you only after a brood mare?’

Magnus ignored her sarcasm. He shrugged. ‘More or less, I suppose. I have little interest in the dam, only the offspring.’

‘Do you not even care what she looks like?’

‘Not particularly. Although I suppose I’d prefer someone good-looking, at least passably so. But not beautiful. A beautiful wife would be too much trouble.’ His lips twitched sardonically. ‘I’ve known too many beautiful wives not to realise what a temptation they are—to others.’

His subtle reference was not lost on Laetitia, and to her annoyance she found herself flushing slightly under his ironic gaze. She would have liked to fling his request in his even white teeth. However, a diamond necklace, earrings and a bracelet were not to be looked in the mouth.

Even if Lord d’Arenville’s bride was.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said sourly.

The black knight reached down, caught her around the waist and lifted her onto his gallant charger, up and away, out of reach of the slavering wolves snapping at her heels.

‘Begone you vicious curs!’ he shouted in a thrillingly deep, manly voice. ‘This tender morsel is not for you!’ His arms tightened around her, protectively, tenderly, possessively. ‘Hold on, my pretty one, I have you safe now,’ he murmured in her ear, his warm breath stirring the curls at her nape. ‘And now I have you, Tallie, my little love, I’ll never let you go.’ Clasping her hard against his broad, strong chest, he lowered his mouth to hers…

‘Miss? Miss Tallie? Are you all right?’

Tallie jerked out of her reverie with a start. The buttons she had been sorting spilled out over the table and she scrabbled hurriedly to retrieve them. Brooks, her cousin’s elderly butler, and Mrs Wilmot, the housekeeper, were bending over her, concerned.

‘Oh, yes, yes, perfectly,’ Tallie, blushing, hastened to assure them. ‘I was in a silly daze—miles away, I’m afraid. Was there something you wanted?’

Brooks proffered a letter on a silver tray. ‘A letter, Miss Tallie. From the mistress.’

Tallie smiled. Brooks still behaved as if he were in charge of the grand London mansion, instead of stuck away in the country house belonging to Tallie’s cousin Laetitia. Tallie took the letter from the tray and thanked him. Dear Brooks—as if she were the lady of the house, receiving correspondence in the parlour, instead of a poor relation, dreaming foolish dreams over a jar of old buttons. She broke open the wafer and began to read.

‘Oh, no!’ Tallie closed her eyes as a sudden surge of bitterness rushed through her. She had assumed that with Christmas over, and Laetitia and George returned to Town, she and the children would be left in peace for several months at least.

‘What is it, Miss Tallie? Bad news?’

‘No, no—or at least nothing tragic, at any rate.’ Tallie hastened to reassure the elderly housekeeper. She glanced across at Brooks, and explained.

‘Cousin Laetitia writes to say she is holding a house party here. We are to make all the arrangements for the accommodation and entertainment of six or seven young ladies and their mothers, possibly a number of fathers also. Five or six other gentlemen may be invited, too; she is not yet decided. And there is to be a ball at the end of two weeks.’ Tallie looked at Brooks and Mrs Wilmot, shook her head in mild disbelief, and took a deep drink of the tea grown cold at her elbow.

Mrs Wilmot had been counting. ‘Accommodation and entertainment for up to twenty-five or six of the gentry, and almost twice that number of servants if we just count on a valet or maidservant for each gentleman or lady. Lawks, Miss Tallie, I don’t know how we’ll ever manage. When is this house party to be, did she say?’

Tallie nodded, a look of dire foreboding in her eyes. ‘The guests will start arriving on Tuesday next. Cousin Laetitia will come the day before, to make sure everything is in order.’

‘Tuesday next? Tuesday next! Lord, miss, whatever shall we do? Arrangements for sixty or more people to stay, arriving on Tuesday next! We will never manage it! Never.’

Tallie took a deep breath. ‘Yes, we will, Mrs Wilmot. We have no choice—you know that. However, my cousin has, for once, considered the extra work it will entail for you both and all the other servants.’

‘And for you, Miss Tallie,’ added Brooks.

She smiled. She knew he meant well, but it was not a comforting thought that even her cousin’s servants regarded her as one of them, even if they did call her Miss Tallie. She continued.

‘I am empowered to hire as much extra help as we need, and no expense spared, though I am to keep strict accounts of all expenditure.’

‘No expense spar—’ In a less dignified person, Brooks’s expression would have been likened to a gaping fish.

Tallie attempted to keep a straight face. The prospect of Cousin Laetitia showing enough consideration for her servants to hire extra help was surprising enough, but for her not to consider expense would astound any who knew her.

‘No, for she says the house party is for her cousin Lord d’Arenville’s benefit, and he is to pay for everything, which is why I am to keep accounts.’

‘Ahh.’ Brooks shut his mouth and looked wise.

‘Lord d’Arenville? Lawks, what would he want with a house party full of young ladies—oh, I see.’ Mrs Wilmot nodded in sudden comprehension. ‘Courting.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Tallie, puzzled.

‘He’s courting. Lord d’Arenville. One of those young ladies must be his intended, and he wishes some time with her before he pops the question. He’ll probably announce it at the ball.’

‘Well, well, so that’s it. A courting couple in the old house once again.’ Brooks’s face creased in a sentimental smile.

‘Lord, Mr Brooks, you’re a born romantic if ever I saw one,’ said Mrs Wilmot. ‘I can no more see that Lord d’Arenville lost in love’s young dream than I can see me flying through the air on one of me own sponge cakes!’

Tallie stifled a giggle at the image conjured up. ‘And why is that, Mrs Wilmot?’ she asked.

‘Why?’ Mrs Wilmot turned to Tallie in surprise. ‘Oh, yes, you’ve never met him, have you, dearie? I keep forgetting, you’re related to the other side of madam’s family. Well, you’ve not missed out on much—a cold fish if ever I saw one, that Lord d’Arenville. They call him The Icicle, you know. Not a drop of warm blood in his body, if you ask me.’

‘But I thought all you females thought him so handsome,’ began Brooks. ‘He had you all in such a tizz—’

‘Handsome is as handsome does, I always say,’ said the housekeeper darkly. ‘And though he may be as handsome as a statue of one of them Greek gods, he’s about as warm and lively as a statue, too!’ She shook her head and pursed her lips disapprovingly.

Intrigued though she was, Tallie knew she should not encourage gossip about her cousin’s guests. And they had more than enough to do without wasting time in idle speculation. Or even idol speculation, she giggled silently, thinking of the Greek god.

‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘it is fortunate that we need not concern ourselves with Lord d’Arenville except to spend his money and present him with a reckoning. And if we need not worry about expense, the servants may be billeted in the village. I suppose we should begin to make a list of what needs to be done.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘I am expected back in the nursery in half an hour, so we will need to hurry.’

Later that evening, as she walked slowly out of the nursery, leaving her three charges yawning sleepily in their beds, their loving goodnight kisses still damp on her cheeks, Tallie decided she would have to take herself more firmly under control. She could not go on in this fashion.

The degree of resentment she’d felt this morning had shocked her. And it was not Laetitia’s thoughtlessness Tallie resented, but the mere fact that she was coming home.

It was very wrong of her to feel like that; Tallie knew it. She ought to feel grateful to Laetitia for the many things she had done for her—giving her a home, letting her look after her children…And it was Laetitia’s home, Laetitia’s children. Laetitia was entitled to visit whenever she wished.

The problem lay with Tallie. As it always did. With her foolish pretences and silly, childish make-believe. It was getting out of hand, pretending, day after day, that these three adorable children were hers. And that their father, a dashing and romantic if somewhat hazy figure, was away on some splendid adventure, fighting pirates, perhaps, or exploring some mysterious new land. She had dreamed so often of how he would arrive home on his coal-black steed, bringing exotic gifts for her and the children. And when they had put the children to bed he would take her in his arms and kiss her tenderly and tell her she was his pretty one, his love, his little darling…

No. It had to stop. She was no one’s pretty one, no one’s darling. The children’s father was bluff, stodgy George, who drank too much and pinched Tallie’s bottom whenever she was forgetful enough to pass within reach. He never came near the children except at Christmas, when he would give them each a shilling or two and pat them on the head. And their mother was Laetitia, beautiful, selfish, charming Laetitia, ornament of the London ton.

Tallie Robinson was nothing—a distant cousin with not a penny to her name; a plain, ordinary girl with nothing to recommend her; a girl who ought to be grateful to be given a home in the country and three lovely children to look after.

There would never be a dashing knight or handsome prince, she told herself savagely. The best hope she had was that a kind gentleman farmer might want her. A widower, probably, with children who needed mothering and who would notice her in church. He would look at her plain brown hair and her plain brown eyes and her plain, sensible clothes and decide she would do. He would not mind that her nose was pointy, and marred by a dozen or so freckles—which no amount of lemon juice or buttermilk would shift. He would not care that one of her front teeth was slightly crooked, nor that she used to bite her nails to the quick.

Tallie looked down at her hands and smiled with pride at her smooth, elegant nails. That was one defect, at least, she had conquered since she left school. Her kindly gentleman farmer would be proud…Drat it—she was doing it again. Weaving fantasies with the slenderest of threads. Wasting time when there were a thousand and one things to be done to prepare for Cousin Laetitia’s house party. Tallie hurried downstairs.

The Russian Prince cracked his whip over the arched necks of his beautiful grey horses, urging them to even greater speed. The curricle swayed dangerously, but the Prince paid no heed—he was in pursuit of the vile kidnappers… No! Lord d’Arenville was not a prince, Tallie told herself sternly. She patted her hair into place and smoothed her hands down her skirts. He was real. And he was here to be with his intended bride. He was not to appear in any of her silly fantasies.

But Mrs Wilmot was right—he certainly was handsome. Tallie waited for her cousin to call her forward and introduce her to the guest of honour. He had arrived only minutes before, clad in a caped driving coat and curly brimmed beaver, sweeping up the drive in a smart curricle drawn by two exquisitely matched greys. Tallie knew nothing at all about horses, but even she could tell his equipage and the greys were something out of the ordinary.

She’d watched him alight, springing lightly down from the curricle, tossing the reins to his groom and stepping forward to inspect his sweating horses before turning to greet his hosts. And thus, his priorities, Tallie told herself ironically—horses before people. Definitely not a prince.

He was terribly handsome, though. Dark hair, thick and springy, short cropped against a well-shaped head. A cleanly chiselled face, hard in its austerity, a long, straight nose, and firm, unsmiling, finely moulded lips. His jaw was also long, squaring off at the chin in a blunt, uncompromising fashion. He was tall, with long, hard horseman’s legs and a spare frame. And once he’d removed his greatcoat she could see that the broad shoulders were not a result of padding, but of well-developed musculature. A sportsman, not a dandy…A pirate king… No! A haughty guest of her haughty cousin.