by Jane Feather
The two of them ran down to the street as Livia came tumbling towards them tugged by two minute scraps of pink-tinged fur. Two pairs of black eyes gleamed beneath thick fringes, two button black noses glistened in the cold air.
“Stop me,” Livia cried from the end of double leash. “Or stop them…they won’t slow down.”
Aurelia and Cornelia stepped into the path of the hurtling pink scraps as Livia hauled back on the leashes. The party of three came to a breathless, panting stop.
Cornelia looked down at the pavement. “Liv, what are these?” It was an incredulous inquiry.
“Dogs,” Livia said, a little doubtfully, accepting that the description might seem rather strange to her friends, who had only ever dealt with working farm dogs. “The mews Morecombe sent me to had a litter…or rather the lady’s Lakeland terrier had had a litter, and she didn’t want them, and so I…” She let the rest of the sentence trail off.
The two pink scraps began to bark. Well, bark was an exaggeration, Cornelia thought. A high-pitched yap was certainly more to the point.
“They make a noise,” Livia pointed out.
“Yes,” Aurelia agreed faintly, covering her ears.
“And they don’t scare me,” Livia declared as if delivering the coup de grâce.
“They scare me,” Cornelia said. “I don’t even know what they are. Certainly not dogs. And what the devil is Puss going to make of them? They’re half her size. She’ll eat them for breakfast.”
“They’re perfect guard dogs,” Livia said stoutly, dragging the animals after her up the steps into the house.
“Perhaps she’s right,” Cornelia said with a grin, watching their uneven progress. “I suspect that any ruffian intent on thievery or vandalism will burst into laughter at first sound and sight of those ridiculous creatures and waken the entire household.”
“Anything, my dear, anything will be better than Morecombe’s blunderbuss,” Aurelia said with feeling.
“How right you are.” Cornelia linked arms with her sister-in-law, and they followed the sounds of yapping into the house.
Chapter 10
CORNELIA EDGED AROUND A STEPLADDER in the middle of the hall. The man on top teetered precariously as he took a soapy cloth to the crystal facets of the chandelier. “Watch yer step, m’lady,” he called down. “’Tis the devil’s own job this, beggin’ yer pardon. Getting’ a right crick in my neck.”
Cornelia moved sideways and squinted up at him. “I can imagine.” He was a small, agile-looking man who reminded her of a jockey and she didn’t think she’d seen him around the house before. “It’s really making a difference though,” she said. The diamond drops were glistening in the sunlight that now came through the freshly washed long windows on either side of the front door.
“I don’t think I know your name,” she queried. “Have you been here before?”
“Started yesterday, m’lady,” he responded. “Lester’s the name, ma’am.”
“Ah, well you’re doing a wonderful job, Lester.” She smiled and stepped away from the ladder.
The smell of fresh paint and beeswax filled the air as a small army of workmen plied brushes to the decorative moldings of the hall and two scullery maids on hands and knees rubbed wax into the parquet.
Cornelia paused at the open door to the salon, a scene of similar bustle, this time supervised by a dour Morecombe, who after initial disapproval of this refurbishment had eventually decided to run the proceedings. One of the twins, our Ada, Cornelia guessed, hurried past her with her arms full of heavy velvet curtains while behind her Mavis was demonstrating the art of carpet beating to a pale waif, who looked to Cornelia to be little more than twelve. Where the apparently reclusive Morecombe had found all these hands was a mystery, but not one to be probed. The more hands, the sooner the job would be finished and they could open their doors to visitors. Another week should do it, she reckoned.
Livia emerged from the parlor, the two pink dogs skittering on the waxed parquet as they bounded ahead of her. “I have to do something with them, Nell,” Livia said, flinging up her hands in despair. “They’re into everything, and they’re getting under everyone’s feet. I can’t concentrate on my accounts.”
Cornelia regarded the creatures, grandly christened Tristan and Isolde, with a degree of exasperated amusement. Much to her surprise she found them rather endearing, although they were undeniably a nuisance, mostly because of their size, which enabled them to get into any nook or cranny they wished. They could also disappear into the shadowy reaches of the house without anyone being any the wiser. Proper dogs knew their place in the scheme of things; these absurd little animals had absolutely no idea that they had a place. The world was their oyster.
“I’ll take them for a walk,” she offered. “I could do with some fresh air myself, the smell of paint gives me a headache.”
“I own I’d be glad to see the back of them for a while,” Livia said with a sigh. “They don’t scare me, but they’re still dogs, and they’re all over the place.”
Cornelia laughed. “I’ll fetch my pelisse.” She hurried to the stairs, dodging mops and buckets. The dogs had not had to prove themselves as guards since their arrival a week earlier. For some reason the nocturnal alarums had ceased. As had visits by Viscount Bonham.
She paused in front of her dresser mirror to tie the ribbons of her gypsy bonnet. Obviously his protestations about furthering their acquaintance had been mere flummery. For which she was not at all sorry. She had enough to do with the house and the children, without worrying about the impertinent Viscount Bonham’s next move.
She went back to the hall where Livia waited with the dogs, who were straining at their leashes, yapping eagerly at the front door. “Come on then, you noisy pair,” Cornelia said, taking their leads. “Is there anything you need, Liv?”
“Not unless you’re going past Hatchard’s. I’d like a copy of The Lay of the Last Minstrel. I left mine at home, and I hadn’t finished it.”
“I’m sure my steps can take me to Piccadilly,” Cornelia said cheerfully. “Although whether Hatchard’s allows dogs inside, I don’t know.” She left with a farewell wave and took a deep revivifying breath of the cold fresh air in Cavendish Square as the ache behind her temples receded.
She set off following the prancing dogs, who seemed to have their own direction in mind, but at the end of the square she hauled them around towards Hanover Square and Piccadilly. A brisk ten-minute walk brought her to Piccadilly, and she paused for a moment to enjoy the bustle, feeling her spirits lift at the sense of being part of this hectic scene. There was more activity going on in this stretch of street than she saw in ten years in sleepy Ringwood. Carriages and street vendors jostled for space, footmen carrying bandboxes were walking behind ladies dressed with such elegance that Cornelia felt impossibly dowdy.
The noise and the crowd had a salutary effect on Tristan and Isolde, who shrank back against her skirts at the seemingly endless parade of booted feet at eye level. She gave an encouraging tug on their leashes as she set off again towards the bow windows of Hatchard’s displaying a mouthwatering display of publications.
Ringwood was seriously deficient in bookshops, she reflected as she pushed open the door. In fact not even the busy town of Southampton boasted a respectable bookstore or lending library. Here there was treasure indeed. The dogs made it impossible to stay long, however, and she quickly made her purchase and went back into the thronged street, determined to return for an extended period without the dogs as soon as possible.
Thin sunlight shone from a clear blue sky, and although the air was cold, it was invigorating. City smells of horseflesh, leather, steaming piles of manure were overlaid by perfume wafting from the stylish people hurrying around her, and she was reluctant to return too quickly to the paint-laden atmosphere of Cavendish Square. She set off rather aimlessly, letting the dogs set the pace, and soon found herself in Grosvenor Square. She strolled down South Audley Street and stopped on the cor
ner of Mount Street.
Now how had she arrived here? All unwitting? Or had her unconscious mind directed her feet to this corner? Viscount Bonham lived on Mount Street. She’d barely glanced at his visiting card and couldn’t remember the number of his house. She hesitated, the last thing she wanted was to be discovered by the viscount walking down his street, but curiosity, aided by the tugging of the dogs, got the better of her, and she strolled casually along the pavement, scanning the tall gracious houses with their white-honed steps bracketed with intricately decorated iron railings leading up to double front doors.
A tilbury bowled around the far corner, the horse high-stepping between the traces, and the dogs leaped forward, barking excitedly. Cornelia tripped against a raised curbstone and grabbed a railing to save herself from falling to her knees, just managing to hang on to the dogs’ leads. She yanked the dogs back with a muttered curse, then realized as she took a step forward that the heel on one of her high-buttoned boots had broken.
She grabbed the railing again to balance herself. How on earth was she to hobble back to Cavendish Square with a broken heel?
Leaning against the railing, she lifted her foot and examined the damage. The heel hung by a thread of leather, she’d have to limp along like Pegleg Pete.
“Hell and the devil!” She swore rather less softly this time and ripped the useless heel from the sole of the boot.
“Why, Lady Dagenham, I can’t believe my good fortune. Are you come to call upon me?” She recognized the light voice immediately and felt her color rise at the familiar tinge of mockery lurking behind the words. Of all the pieces of ill luck. Was she actually leaning against the viscount’s own railings?
“Viscount Bonham,” she said stiffly, putting her foot to the ground, then realizing how absurd she must look with one leg shorter than the other. “My heel broke,” she said in somewhat unnecessary explanation, finally raising her eyes to face him.
“So I see,” he said. His smile seemed friendly enough, but Cornelia found herself looking suspiciously for a sardonic glint in the green eyes. “How very unfortunate.” He glanced around rather pointedly. “I assume your escort has gone for a hackney.”
“I don’t have an escort,” she said, hearing the slight defensive note in her voice. “I was merely walking the dogs.”
“Ah.” His mouth curved in a slightly quizzical smile. He was dressed for riding in a caped greatcoat and top boots, his beaver hat in one hand, his whip in the other. She noticed for the first time how the sun brought out chestnut highlights in his brown hair. His eyebrows rose incredulously as he saw Tristan and Isolde. “Those are dogs?”
“A good question,” she replied with a snap. “And if it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t be in this predicament now.”
“An awkward one, I grant you,” he said, his mouth still curved. He tapped his boot with the tip of his whip. “We must do something about it. You’d better come inside while I send for my carriage, and I’ll convey you home.”
“There’s no need, thank you,” she responded. She had no desire to be beholden to Lord Bonham.
“My dear girl, you cannot possibly stagger all the way back to Cavendish Square with only one shoe,” he pointed out.
“Why must you use that patronizing tone?” she demanded crossly. “I realize I’m at a disadvantage, but it’s most unchivalrous of you to exploit it.”
“Forgive me,” he said with a bow, and now his eyes were full of laughter. “I meant only to be helpful. Will you do me the honor of entering my house, ma’am, and if you’d prefer, I’ll send a footman to summon a hackney.” He offered his arm.
Cornelia glanced up the street hoping to see a fortuitous hackney coming around the far corner. As ill luck would have it, the street was deserted. He was right, she couldn’t stand here on one foot waiting for salvation.
“Thank you, Lord Bonham.” She ignored his proffered arm, however, instead hauled on the dogs’ leads as she limped up the steps on her broken boot.
The front door opened as she reached the top step. Harry greeted his butler as he eased Cornelia into the hall with a hand under her elbow. “Ah, Hector, Lady Dagenham has had the misfortune to break her bootheel. See if Eric can fix it temporarily and take these creatures somewhere.” He gestured vaguely towards the dogs.
Hector stared at them for an instant then recollected himself. “At once, my lord.” He snapped his fingers at a hovering footman. “Take these animals to the scullery, Fred.”
Cornelia relinquished the leads with relief. She handed over her boot and its separated heel to the butler, who received both with an impassive bow.
“And bring coffee in the salon,” the viscount instructed over his shoulder as he again took his guest’s elbow and directed her hobbling step towards the room in question.
She looked around with covert interest. Looking, she realized, for any signs of a female presence. She had had an instinctive conviction that Lord Bonham was a bachelor. Everything about his behavior indicated it, but an appropriate opportunity to confirm that impression had never arisen. However, there were no female touches in the room. It was a gracious apartment, the walls hung with French paper, the Aubusson carpet glowing with rich hues, the furniture all in the first style of elegance. But no sign of a workbox, a tambour frame, or even a vase of flowers. The pictures were all impersonal, no portraits, no intimate scenes.
“Allow me to take your pelisse.” His lordship reached with unwarranted familiarity over her shoulders to unfasten the top button. Definitely no wife on the scene, Cornelia decided.
She twisted her body sideways. “Thank you, but I’ll keep it on.”
“As you please. But at least take off your bonnet.” His lordship directed her towards a scroll-ended sofa offering solicitously, “Would you like coffee, or perhaps a glass of sherry after your ordeal?”
Cornelia sat down and arranged herself as gracefully as she could with her one shoe. She untied the ribbons of her bonnet and set the hat on the seat beside her. “A broken heel is hardly an ordeal, Lord Bonham. And coffee would be lovely, thank you.” She had recovered her composure now and with it her mettle. Her host was playing his usual game again and she was more than ready to enter the lists. She removed her gloves finger by finger, set them beside her hat, and folded her hands in her lap, regarding him in cool silence.
Harry returned her regard in the same silence. He had kept away from Cavendish Square in the last few days, while Lester established a foothold there and did some discreet reconnaissance. The opportunity for Lester to join the workforce putting the house in order had been heaven-sent. There was now always the possibility that, with the run of the house, he would find a way to retrieve the thimble with no one any the wiser.
But if that didn’t happen, then Harry himself would have to step into his own role in the search and retrieval. For that he needed an intimate connection with Cornelia Dagenham. He was sure he had already managed to arouse the lady’s interest, and a strategic absence could only sharpen it. Her sudden appearance on his doorstep seemed to prove him right, unless it was purely fortuitous, but that seemed like too much of a coincidence.
He caught himself reflecting that whatever the reason for her appearance, it pleased him deeply, and his pleasure had little to do with the prospect of retrieving the thimble. Everything about her fascinated him. She was a challenge, serene, composed, despite her present disadvantage, and radiating a most powerful sensuality. A sensuality all the more arousing because he wasn’t convinced she was aware of it.
What kind of marriage had she had? One that had unlocked the door to that sensuality, or merely half turned the key?
His body stirred at a reverie that had become uncomfortably lustful and he welcomed the diversion as a footman entered with coffee. The silence continued until the coffee had been poured, dainty Sèvres cups passed around, and the servant had left the salon.
Harry, a slight frown in his eye, turned the conversation in a direction that would banish lust
ful thoughts. “Country ways don’t always go down too well in town,” he said abruptly.
“I beg your pardon?” She sipped her coffee, her spine prickling at the implication of criticism.
He pursed his lips. “Nell, ladies do not roam the streets without any form of escort.”
She decided to ignore the familiarity, “Nonsense. I’m a widow way past the age of discretion. My reputation is in no danger, I assure you.”
“Well, now there you’re wrong,” he said, putting down his cup. “In this town, reputation is all and everything, and having it compromised is a very uncomfortable matter.”
She looked at him sharply, alerted by something in his voice. Her indignation faded. “You sound as if you know something about that.”
He turned away, but not before she’d caught the dark shadow that crossed his eyes. He stood, hands behind his back, gazing out of one of the long windows overlooking the street. His shoulders moved in the semblance of a shrug, and his tone was careless as he said, “It may be unjust, but it’s a much more serious matter for women.”
Cornelia frowned. His tone told her to drop the subject, but a perverse instinct pushed her to probe further. She put her cup aside and reached down to unfasten her remaining boot. She was tired of feeling unbalanced, and it also gave her the excuse not to look at him as she said, “Maybe so. But I get the feeling you’ve been touched by the injustice yourself. Some member of your family perhaps?”
Anne’s body at the foot of the stairs, limbs asprawl, the strange angle of her neck.
“Not at all,” he stated with sudden brusqueness. “I was merely issuing a friendly word to the wise.” He spun around from the window and went to the sideboard, where he poured himself a glass of sherry. “If you and your friends intend to enter society, then roaming the streets with only a pair of imitation dogs as escort will do you no good.”
Cornelia stretched her stockinged feet thoughtfully, flexing her toes. “I’m grateful for the advice.” Her smile was dulcet but didn’t deceive him for a moment. “It’s kind of you to have such a care for my reputation, even though such care loses a little of its sincerity in present circumstances. I am, when all’s said and done, alone with an unmarried man in his house at his invitation.” She waited to see if he would correct her statement, but he didn’t.