Louise Allen Historical Collection

by Louise Allen

  ‘Mrs Bishop, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. A good woman, but I would wish you had a lady in residence.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, but I feel quite… comfortable with the present circumstances, sir.’

  That was hardly true, but advertising for some respectable companion was too fraught with dangers to be contemplated. ‘Should I need the benefit of female guidance, I am sure I might call upon Miss Perrin’s advice.’ The vicar’s sister, small, timid, with a perpetually red nose and the air of anxious piety, would hardly be much protection against a hardened rake, but the thought seemed to please the vicar.

  ‘Of course you may, Miss Haddon. Perhaps you would care to join the Ladies’ Hassock Sewing Circle?’

  ‘I would love to; however, my needlepoint is sadly clumsy.’ It was excellent, in fact, but Lina had sewn far too many hassocks for her father’s church in Martinsdene to want to start again now.

  Trimble produced the vicar’s wide-brimmed hat, his gloves and cane and ushered him out of the door, leaving Lina to reflect that they had now received all the calls they were likely to.

  ‘Would the Ladies’ Hassock Sewing Circle not be amusing?’ The study door swung open to reveal Quinn lounging against the jamb.

  ‘You were listening at the keyhole,’ Lina said severely, disguising the fact that her hands had become suddenly shaky by jamming foliage into the back of the vase.

  ‘Of course. Think of the gossip you would pick up at the sewing circle.’

  ‘I never want to sew another hassock as long as I live,’ she said vehemently, then could have kicked herself as speculation came into the green eyes. ‘My aunt is very devout,’ she explained, crossing her fingers in the folds of her skirt before sweeping the plant trimmings into her trug and adjusting the vase.

  ‘There is no need to hurry off, Celina. I am unlikely to ravish you on the hard hall floor.’

  ‘Or anywhere, my lord, so long as I have a weapon in my hand,’ she retorted, adding the trimming knife to the trug.

  ‘Am I not forgiven?’ Quinn had not seen fit to have his hair cut, nor to adopt a more formal style of dress in anticipation of his callers. Lina wondered whether he was aware of how well the buckskin breeches and high boots, the white of his unstarched linen and the relaxed fit of the tailcoat over broad shoulders, suited him. Probably very aware, she concluded, just as he knew how spectacular he looked in his Oriental evening clothes. But it was not vanity, she suspected, but quite deliberate manipulation of those around him.

  Today he wanted to make the point that he was a country gentleman at ease in his home and, while courteous to his visitors, not in any way concerned to impress them. Take me as you find me, he seemed to be saying. I am Dreycott now.

  ‘Are you asking my pardon, my lord? If you are sorry, then of course I forgive you.’

  ‘But I am not sorry,’ Quinn said softly. ‘Only that it was a less-than-satisfactory experience for both of us.’

  ‘If you are not repentant, then you cannot hope for forgiveness.’ Now I sound like Papa!

  ‘I am reproved, Celina.’ The green eyes mocked her, putting the lie to his words. ‘And how are your bruises today? And the part you sat upon so hard?’

  ‘My bruises are multi-coloured and I am somewhat stiff, my lord.’ Lina put her arm through the handle of the trug. ‘If you will excuse me, I have the vases to do in the dining room.’

  ‘Why have I become my lord again?’ Quinn asked. He straightened up and stood, with one hand on the door jamb, looking at her steadily.

  Lina hoped she was not blushing. ‘I find it hard to speak to you in any other way after yesterday.’

  ‘So your tongue becomes formal, to act as a barrier,’ he said. ‘And how do you think of me, I wonder?’ Now she was blushing and he had seen it and that wicked smile was creasing the corners of his eyes and twitching at his mouth. ‘As Quinn now, perhaps?’

  The lessons in flirtation came to her aid. Lina lowered her lashes, fluttered her free hand and said demurely, I could not possible say…my lord.’

  As she hoped, he thought she was laughing at him and not being serious. The grin became a smile and he shook his head at her. ‘The vicar thinks you should have a chaperon. He obviously considers this a house of sin.’

  ‘He enquired if I had one and I told him that Mrs Bishop was quite sufficient, as you will know as you were listening at the door. And the house is not sinful, my lord.’ With that she stepped into the dining room and shut the door behind her. Would he come in? No, she heard booted steps on the marble heading for the front door.

  Lina stood and stared at the empty vase set ready for her flowers. She was enjoying her encounters with Quinn, she realised. She liked his frankness, his teasing, the lack of hypocrisy and cant, even as she was wary of him and frightened of her own reaction to his dangerous charm. The frisson of sensual awareness that quivered through her at the thought or sight of him was predictable, she told herself. She was so inexperienced with the opposite sex that any handsome man paying her that sort of attention would produce the same effect.

  Quinn was, she could see clearly, the first adult male she had ever been so close to other than her father, and he happened to be an attractive, virile, intelligent, charming, unscrupulous male into the bargain. If temptation was made flesh it would probably be called Quinn Ashley.

  It was very fortunate that she had observed the consequences for a woman who fell into sin at first hand. Most of the girls working at The Blue Door had started their journey to the brothel with seduction at the hands of a sweetheart—just as Mama had. A briar thorn stuck in her thumb and she sucked it, wincing at the metallic taste of blood. Papa would turn that into a sermon—the apparently innocent loveliness of the flower hiding pain and danger. But she did not need a preacher to warn her that she was flirting with peril.

  Celina began to work on the arrangement, straightening her bruised back as though to stiffen her resolve. Quinn Ashley was too much temptation even for an experienced society lady, let alone her. She must avoid him whenever possible.

  Lina succeeded in staying out of Quinn’s way most effectively. She appeared at luncheon and dinner, made unexceptional conversation, refused to notice double-edged or teasing remarks and took her walks when she was certain that he and Gregor were shut up in the library.

  Long trestle tables had been set up where the men were laying out and sorting papers as they retrieved them from all over the house. It seemed strange that the wicked Lord Dreycott could so immerse himself in scholarly pursuits. He ought to spend his time with his horses, his guns, his brandy and his cards, she thought resentfully, then she could categorise him very neatly.

  For four days after that encounter in the gazebo life at Dreycott Park fell into a routine so disciplined and predictable that Lina felt sometimes that she had dreamed the demanding pressure of Quinn’s lips on hers, the strength of his arms, the heat of his mouth. She was living, it seemed, with a gentleman scholar and his assistant.

  In the morning after breakfast, during which a large amount of post appeared, he and Gregor rode out or walked or exercised. They went into the long barn with rapiers and, according to Jenks, practised swordsmanship exhaustively. They wrestled and fought, attracting an audience of all the male staff, which drove the women of the household to exasperated nagging when none of the heavy work was done.

  Then the copper was emptied to fill the marble bath and following luncheon they disappeared into the library. After dinner Quinn went to the study to read through his uncle’s work on the memoirs and make notes on how to complete them while Gregor continued to search through cupboards and shelves for paperwork. When they had the papers sorted, Quinn explained, they would begin on the books, creating a brief catalogue as they boxed them up.

  The fifth day was Sunday. Lina put on her usual costume for attending church since she had arrived at Dreycott Park, the once-white gown that had been dyed to a soft grey, tied with a deep amethyst ribbon under the bosom. With w
hite cuffs and narrow white lace at the neckline it looked sombre yet attractive, she thought, as she pinned up her hair into a complex plaited twist that her aunt had taught her. Simple pearl stud earrings, her gold cross, plain black-kid ankle boots and a bonnet trimmed with more of the amethyst ribbon completed the ensemble.

  She picked up her prayer book and went down to breakfast. It was proper to join the men in the small dining room, she decided, instead of taking her tea and toast in the kitchen as usual.

  They stood up as she came in. ‘Good morning. It is a lovely day, is it not?’ Then she saw that they were both clad in immaculate and conventional tailcoats, pantaloons and Hessian boots—and that they were both staring at her.

  ‘Celina, good morning. We are all dressed for church, I see.’

  So that was what they were staring at. This was the first time she had worn her Sunday best. ‘You are coming to church, too?’ It had never occurred to her that they might; Gregor because she assumed he was not of the Protestant faith, Quinn because she found it hard to visualise him sitting attentively through a sermon with the eyes of the entire parish on him, speculating about his past and present sins.

  ‘We make a point of attending the religious rites of whatever community we find ourselves in,’ Quinn said. ‘Unless, of course, non-believers are unwelcome, which they are in some parts of the world. Religious observance is usually of great significance to a tribe,’ he added as though they were discussing diet or clothes.

  ‘You are not a believer, then?’ Lina asked, taken aback at the concept of the parishioners as a tribe to be studied. She did not think she had ever met someone of an atheistical persuasion before.

  ‘I am a sceptic. Certainly my great-uncle’s spirit has not visited to inform me that we were both wrong and I should repent immediately.’

  It was a shocking thing to say, but the image he conjured up of old Simon’s spectre appearing in the bedchamber with dire warnings about repentance while Quinn sat bolt upright in bed in alarm almost made her laugh out loud. Lina fought to keep a straight face. ‘It is a charming church and Mr Perrin delivers an interesting sermon.’ Despite his dry appearance, the vicar had a mild sense of humour and a genuine concern for his flock which she admired.

  ‘Is there a box pew for the Park?’

  ‘No. We—I mean you—have a pew set aside, but all of them are rather charming medieval benches with carved ends, not enclosed ones.’ And the congregation will have an uninterrupted view of their shocking new lord of the manor, she thought, wondering if that had prompted his question. He did not appear alarmed at the prospect.

  Trimble came in with a newspaper on a salver. ‘A newspaper at last, my lord. Friday’s Morning Chronicle has only just arrived from London. What has happened to The Times I regret I cannot say—some inefficiency at the receiving office, I have no doubt. I will enquire. I trust those two papers will be suitable?’

  ‘Eminently, thank you, Trimble.’

  Lina stared at the folded paper beside Quinn’s plate. If it had been The Times she would not have worried: sensational crimes several weeks old would not feature there. But the Chronicle always ran crime stories, and followed them up whenever a titillating snippet came out; there was a chance that something about the fugitive Celina Shelley would be in there.

  Quinn showed no inclination to look at the paper yet and Gregor scarcely glanced at it. I wonder… might I see the paper for a moment? I…there is an advertisement I would like to find if it is in that issue.’

  ‘Of course.’ Quinn handed it across and went back to his gammon and eggs.

  The front page was all advertisements as usual. She made a show of skimming past notices about artificial teeth, anatomical stays, the Benevolent Society of St Patrick’s annual general meeting, Essence of Coltsfoot for coughs and several notices of lotteries. The inside two pages were without notices, but a glance showed her it was all international and court news. The back page, however, was full of snippets. Fire at Kentish Town…protest against threshing machines…bizarre accident to a pedestrian in Newcastle…the Tolhurst Sapphire.

  There was only an inch, but to Lina’s eyes it seemed to be printed in red ink. Sir George Tolhurst, lately succeeded as baronet after the tragic death of his father, Sir Humphrey Tolhurst, has offered a reward of one hundred guineas for information leading to the capture of Miss Celina Shelley, a young woman of dubious character, who removed the famous Tolhurst Sapphire from the finger of the expiring baronet after inveigling herself into his Duke Street house. Miss Shelley, a well-favoured and genteel-seeming young female, is of middling stature with long straight yellow hair and blue eyes.

  She laid the Chronicle down beside her plate, the blood loud in her ears as she fought down the panicky instinct to grab the paper and flee.

  ‘More coffee?’ She picked up the pot, newly refilled by Michael, and moved it towards Quinn’s cup. ‘Oh! Ouch!’ She jerked, the coffee splashed out and on to the folded paper. I am sorry.’ Quinn reached out and took the pot from her hands. ‘It was so heavy and my arm is still sore from falling the other day. Oh, dear, your newspaper!’ Lina took her napkin and dabbed fiercely at the coffee stain, the soft newsprint disintegrating under the assault. ‘Now I’ve made it worse!’

  ‘Allow me, Miss Haddon.’ Trimble removed the paper and held it up. ‘It will dry by the range, my lord. There is now a hole, but it can be made readable, at least.’

  ‘Have you scalded yourself?’ Quinn sounded more concerned about her welfare than the state of his newspaper. He certainly did not seem suspicious. But why should he be? It was only her own awareness of danger that made the item seem to leap from the paper at her. ‘No? But those bruises are still bad? Gregor, you must lend Celina your pot of bear fat. A sovereign remedy, I understand.’

  ‘Thank you, but arnica is perfectly adequate.’ She smiled at Gregor, not wanting to offend, although she suspected he had probably killed the animal in question himself with his bare hands. The restrained elegance of formal morning wear made him look, if anything, larger and more forbidding than usual. ‘We should be going soon,’ she added with a glance at the clock. ‘The carriage will be at the door.’

  Jenks had sent round the barouche with the top down so they could enjoy the sunny weather. With the betraying newspaper announcement safely illegible her mood lifted and Lina wished she had a parasol to twirl. Instead, she allowed herself to be handed into the forward-facing seat opposite the two men and prepared to enjoy the treat of a drive through the park to Upper Cleybourne church.

  The bells were ringing, the cracked tenor that had so annoyed Simon spoiling the joyous peel. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘that’s the bell the legacy will replace.’ They came out of the gates and pulled up on the little green outside the church. It was already thronged with parishioners chatting in the sunshine and heads turned as the Dreycott barouche came to a halt.

  Lina descended, preoccupied with sorting out reticule and prayer book and smoothing down her skirts. Then the change in the sound penetrated and she looked up. All around the little groups were falling silent as they stared and the faces that watched them were set and unwelcoming.

  So, the gossip mills have been working to grind out all the old history and they’ve made up their minds, have they? she thought. There were people with whom she had thought herself on cordial terms, with whom she expected to exchange smiles and greetings and village news, who were staring now. They froze her with the same disapproval they directed at the men—it was much worse than she had feared.

  We’ll see about that, Lina thought. Inside she quailed—disapproval had always shrivelled her soul—but now she lifted her chin, set her shoulders back and made herself walk up to Mr and Mrs Willets and their family.

  Mrs Willets had been amiable when Lina stepped off the stagecoach in Sheringham, tired and confused. Lina had fallen into conversation with the Willets’s new governess, who was being met by Mrs Willets in their carriage, and, after a whispered word from Miss Greggs, the
matron had been happy to take up Lord Dreycott’s guest. Now the squire managed an uneasy smile of greeting, his wife looked daggers and their daughters edged behind their father.

  ‘Good morning,’ Lina said brightly. ‘Have you met Lord Dreycott yet? He is most anxious that his late uncle’s legacy to restore the cracked bell is dealt with urgently. Won’t it be a joy to have a musical peal?’

  ‘Er, no.’ Mr Willets looked harassed. ‘I mean, yes, it will. Good morning, my lord.’ He bowed and Quinn inclined his head in response.

  ‘Mr Willets. Madam. May I introduce Mr Vasiliev?’

  Gregor bowed, Mrs Willets glared at Lina, the girls giggled. Lina gritted her teeth into a smile and swept on to the next group with much the same result: wary politeness from the men, thinly veiled hostility from the women and no attempt to introduce daughters.

  By the time she reached the church door she was seething and her nervousness had become lost in her anger for Quinn. How could they be so rude and unwelcoming to a man they had never met, just on the basis of ancient gossip?

  Perhaps he hasn’t noticed, she thought. Perhaps he thinks this is just typical English village society. Then as she reached the porch she turned and saw Quinn’s face. He was smiling, but his eyes were like chips of green ice.

  Chapter Seven

  Well, no-one has actually spat on my boots yet, Quinn conceded as he walked up the path in Celina’s wake. It was like following a small, very fierce frigate, wheeling to turn its guns on any enemy shipping it passed. He was touched by her anger on his behalf but he had expected, and to an extent merited, this reception. She did not deserve to be treated like this by those sanctimonious prigs who had shunned his uncle. He certainly did not want to have her fall out with her acquaintance over him and he was not happy about it.

  He caught up with her in the porch and bent to murmur in her ear, ‘Not so fierce!’