Mary frowned. ‘Lord Stanford? I’ve heard bad things about that young man.’
A rush of tenderness filled her for a person who cared enough to worry about her at such a time. There had been few enough of those in her life. ‘The younger brother. He’s a good man.’ He was, she realised. For all her annoyance at his interference, he had been kind and honourable.
A cough racked her friend’s fragile form and Sylvia picked up a glass of water from the small night table. She lifted Mary’s head and helped her to drink.
Mary gave her a wan smile of thanks. ‘I’m glad you’re settled, then,’ she said so softly Sylvia had to bend her head close. ‘You don’t belong here, Sylvia. There’s too much sickness and squalor. Don’t worry about me. Bill is a good man and takes care of me.’
‘As good as I can,’ Bill spoke gently.
Sylvia’s heart gladdened at the thought that Mary had relatives to care for her. A family’s love made all the difference at a time like this. But she and Mary had been such close friends; she did so hate to lose her.
Mary’s eyes slid closed.
‘Best leave her, miss,’ Bill said. ‘She tires easy. She’ll talk about this visit for days, she will. In between the opium, like.’
The steady rise and fall of the thin chest beneath the covers seemed peaceful. Sylvia stood up and smiled at Mr Jensen. ‘If you ever need anything, please let me know.’ How? How could he let her know? She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Evernden will know my whereabouts should you need to reach me.’
As soon as she settled her own affairs, she would see what she could do for Mary. She wiped her eyes on the heel of her hand.
‘This way, miss,’ Bill Jensen said.
Out in the ugly street, she stared back at the gaunt building. Poor Mary. And just when life had seemed so full of promise. How unkind the fates could be. In laying Mary low, they had twisted Sylvia’s path until she could no longer see her way.
Up and down the grimy street full of shadows and dirt, her gaze sought answers. With nowhere to go, no plan, no future, confusion washed over her. She knew nothing of London. She would have to find somewhere to live, some means of earning a living.
She wiped her eyes on her handkerchief and straightened her shoulders. She did not believe in fate. One made one’s own destiny. And who knew, perhaps she would be able to come back and help her loyal friend.
Like a candle flame on a dark winter’s night, Christopher guided her towards his carriage with gentle sympathy.
‘Where now?’ she asked, too tired to care.
‘Now we go to Evernden Place on Mount Street,’ he said and lifted her into the curricle.
Chapter Seven
T he wall sconces remained unlit in his mother’s upstairs withdrawing room. Christopher was not surprised to see his mother stretched out on a chaise asleep. She liked to nap before dinner and dance until dawn.
In repose, she looked younger than her forty and some summers. The gathering gloom gave her skin a fine and delicate appearance and her pale green gown showed off her still youthful figure.
‘Mother,’ he murmured.
Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a start, reaching to straighten her cap, a mere wisp of lace perched on silver-stranded blonde curls. ‘Christopher, darling. What on earth are you doing back in town so soon?’
He strode to her side and carried her proffered hand to his lips. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Are you not pleased to see me?’
She waved her handkerchief at him. ‘Naughty boy. Of course I am. I am merely surprised. You intended to visit friends, did you not? I did not look to see you for at least a fortnight.’
‘Unfortunately, things did not turn out quite as expected,’ he replied, unable to fully obliterate the wryness in his tone.
An expression of dismay crossed her face. ‘Were things so very bad at Cliff House? It just seemed so disrespectful for no one from the family to attend.’
Christopher sat down on the chair next to the chaise. ‘Aunt Imogene and Uncle George put in an appearance.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Oh, you poor dear. Now I’m sorry I asked you to go. It must have been simply dreadful.’
Dreadful didn’t quite describe the past two days. Interesting, challenging, but as the face of Miss Sylvia Boisette intruded on his thoughts, he knew he would not have missed it for the world.
‘It wasn’t so bad. Aunt Imogene finally got the ormolu clock, so we’ve heard the last of it.’
‘But why did you return home?’
His face heated under her intense scrutiny. She always knew when he was keeping something from her. He had better get this over with. ‘Something happened.’
Her eyes lit with interest. ‘You met someone?’
Christopher stemmed a groan. For the past few months, his mother had been trying to match him up with one suitable female after another. He’d been running the gauntlet of gently bred débutantes dressed in white at every function he attended. Hence his planned flight to the country. Unfortunately Miss Boisette and her problems had put it all out of mind.
‘It is a little difficult to explain. You see, Uncle John left me with the care of his ward, Mademoiselle—’
‘His ward?’ his mother shrieked.
She never raised her voice except at Garth, and never in a shriek. Damn. ‘Mother, you must listen. Uncle John left Miss Boisette in my care and I offered to drive her to a friend of hers in Tunbridge Wells.’
With a small sigh of relief, she raised a languorous hand to her temple. ‘My word, child, you had me thinking you had brought that dreadful woman here.’
‘Er…actually, I did.’
She sat bolt upright. ‘You did what?’
He could not see a way to cushion the blow and readied himself for the peal she would ring over his head. ‘I brought her to London with me.’
Twin spots of colour glowed on her cheeks. ‘You brought his paramour to London?’
‘Miss Boisette is downstairs in the drawing room.’
‘Downstairs in my drawing room?’
Better she sound like a parrot than a banshee. ‘Yes, Mother, that is what I have been trying to tell you. Her friend had left the Wells. I brought Miss Boisette here because she had nowhere else to go.’
His mother reached for his hand. ‘Is it not enough for your brother to have no morals—now you, too? I always thought better of you, Christopher. You will oblige me by taking her back where she came from, at once.’
‘I can’t, Mother. The house is sold.’
‘Surely there are places for women like her?’ The corners of her mouth turned down as if she’d sucked on a lemon. ‘Your father found them easily enough in his day. Take her to one of those.’
Christopher had never seen her so haughty or so heartless. ‘She was Uncle John’s ward.’
‘Is that what she told you?’
The venom in her tone set his teeth on edge. He got up and strode to the window, staring into the street. It had been a mistake to bring Miss Boisette here. What with his father’s behaviour in his last years and Garth’s dissipated ways, how could he expect his mother to accept her? But he would not drop Sylvia off at some inn like so much rubbish.
He paced back to his seat and took his mother’s hand in his. ‘Mother, we cannot turn her out on to the street, no matter how much you dislike it. Uncle John left her in my care. If I take her to a hotel in London, surely word of it will be all over town in a day or so. You would not like that, would you?’
She shook her head doubtfully. ‘Christopher, everyone knows about her. He brought her back from France and hid her away in that house of his. It doesn’t matter what he called her, she was his mistress. Your father said so.’
The echo of his earlier misgivings hit a nerve. Sylvia had behaved disgracefully at Cliff House. Since then, her demeanour had been exemplary, but what if she treated his mother to a taste of her wantonness? He grimaced. ‘She is less than half his age.’
His mother moaned and reached f
or her smelling salts on the table beside her. ‘And that’s what makes it so disgusting. Oh, Christopher, please. I can’t bear to have another scandal in the family. How could you?’
Dash it all, he was making a pig’s ear of turning his mother up sweet. ‘I don’t want a scandal either. That’s why we have to find her a position as a governess as far away from London as possible.’
She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes as ever-ready tears welled up. ‘A governess? You have run mad. I shall appeal to Garth. Lord only knows what he will say.’
Hell. He never fought with his mother. He’d seen her cry enough over his father and be driven to distraction by Garth. Gentle persuasion worked far better with her than harsh commands. Too bad his father hadn’t discovered the secret.
Absently, he leaned forward and shifted the tea tray to sit dead centre on the rosewood table. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but you haven’t met Miss Boisette and you are judging her without giving her a chance.’ Much as he had himself, for God’s sake. He glanced up at her. ‘I’m not asking you to introduce her to the ton; I just want you to help her find a position. It doesn’t have to be with one of your friends, just a decent family in need of a French governess.’
Lady Stanford gazed at him through watery blue eyes. ‘I don’t know anyone of that sort. What respectable family would allow a disreputable woman to educate their children?’
Mother had learned never to say no, she just found more difficulties. ‘No one has to know anything about her past. As soon as she finds a position, she will leave. That is what you want, is it not?’
She pouted. ‘I still don’t see why we are responsible for this female.’
‘I explained all that.’
Tears spilled over and coursed down her pale cheeks. ‘Oh, Christopher, how could you?’
Reaching for every ounce of patience at his command, he rubbed his palms over his knees and prepared for battle. For one brief moment, his father had his sympathy.
Above the marble mantel, a portrait of a knight in a full-bottomed wig and shining ceremonial armour returned Sylvia’s gaze with a half-smile. This Evernden ancestor must be from the last century. The way his green-flecked hazel eyes crinkled at the corners reminded her of Christopher.
Too tense to sit on one of the green-and-cream brocade sofas artfully arranged against the wainscoting, Sylvia circled the room inspecting the assorted bric-à-brac on elegant Sheraton tables. On the far wall hung the painting of a woman also from the last century. Powdered and rolled over her ears, her hair rose to startling proportions, topped off with white ostrich plumes. Sylvia vaguely remembered her mother dressing her hair that way.
‘Extraordinary hairdo, ain’t it?’
Sylvia jumped. She swung around to the man who spoke in such a contemptuous tone.
The word satanic leaped to her mind as she took in midnight-winging brows, a full mouth curled in a sneer and waving black hair. Inches taller, but of slighter build than Christopher, she guessed he must be Lord Stanford. The widening of his brown eyes told her she’d surprised him also.
‘Stanford, at your service, madam,’ he said with a gallant bow. He gestured to the portrait behind her. ‘My mother, the dowager Lady Stanford.’
They had not been introduced, but she couldn’t very well ignore him in his own home. ‘Sylvia Boisette,’ she replied.
Recognition flickered in his dark eyes. He raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m waiting for Mr Evernden,’ she explained.
An appraising glance ran from her head to her toes and seemed to see right through her clothes.
Hating the surge of heat in her face, she stiffened.
A rakish smile quirked one corner of his mouth. ‘Well, good for Kit. Welcome to my abode, Miss Boisette.’
His home. She mistrusted the tenor of his scrutiny and the gleam in his dark, wicked eyes. She held herself aloof. ‘Thank you.’
‘And where is my younger brother? Hardly courteous of him to leave you kicking your heels here by yourself. Would you like some tea, or could I offer you something a little stronger after your journey? Wine, perhaps?’
Heavens, his deep lazy drawl sounded pleasing to the ear. ‘No, thank you. Mr Evernden went to speak to Lady Stanford.’
The eyebrow shot up again. ‘Bearding the lioness in her den, hmm. Christopher has more bottom than I.’
His lips twisted at her blank stare. ‘Please, won’t you be seated and make yourself comfortable?’
He placed her hand on his arm and led her to the sofa by the fireplace. She perched on its edge.
He lounged next to her, one long arm resting along the sofa’s back, his hand inches from her shoulder.
She had tried to persuade Christopher not to bring her here, but he had refused to set her down at an inn. He had insisted she would be welcomed at Evernden Place and his mother would find a way to help her. The wolfish expression on the sinfully handsome face so close to her own reinforced her misgivings.
The silenced crackled with tension.
‘It is a very pleasant house you have, Lord Stanford,’ she managed.
‘Thank you. What brings you to London, Miss Boisette?’
The steel beneath the lazy tone demanded an answer. Damn Christopher for leaving her alone. ‘I intended to live in Tunbridge Wells, but unforeseen circumstances forced a change in my plans.’
‘How very…unfortunate,’ he murmured, staring at her mouth.
She winced at the sarcasm and the heated stare. His assumption rankled, but she had known how it would be the moment she had agreed to travel with Mr Evernden. ‘I can assure you my presence here is wholly your brother’s idea. I asked him to leave me at a coaching inn. I am quite capable of looking after my own affairs.’
Amusement glimmered in obsidian depths. ‘How refreshing.’
She had the distinct impression this was some sort of game and she played the mouse to his cat. She touched the locket at her neck, seeking its comfort.
With the grace and menace of a panther, he rose to loom over her. ‘I think I should go and see what is keeping my brother. I shall return in a moment.’
She nodded and watched him leave with an overpowering sense of relief.
Whistling softly, Garth mounted the stairs, knowing exactly where to find Christopher and his mother at this hour of the day. He paused in the doorway, a bitter taste in his mouth as he watched the affected fluttering of his mother’s handkerchief and her pouting mouth, as she listened to the low voice of her adored younger son.
For once it seemed that Christopher had earned her wrath. It would do him good to receive the edge of her tongue until she found some reason to blame Garth for his brother’s fall from grace. After all, Christopher was the beloved son, the one who looked like an Evernden and not a cuckoo in the nest.
To hell with the lot of them. He held the title whether his foolish fashion-plate of a mother liked it or not.
He sauntered into the room, stretching out his hand. ‘Kit, I see you couldn’t stay away. Who is the ravishing creature in the drawing room?’
Christopher’s eyebrows snapped together and he gave Garth an intent look as they shook hands.
‘Ravishing?’ Lady Stanford cried. ‘Christopher, you never said anything about ravishing. How can I help find a governess position for someone with her reputation who is ravishing to boot?’
‘A governess, eh? What a waste,’ Garth mused. ‘She didn’t strike me as that sort.’
Christopher glared at him. ‘You don’t know anything about her.’
Garth shrugged.
‘Is she really beautiful?’ Lady Stanford asked.
‘Stunning,’ Garth replied.
Christopher glowered.
‘That settles it,’ Lady Stanford said, swinging her feet onto the floor with a rustle of skirts. ‘I will have nothing to do with her. I don’t care what you say, Christopher, I can do nothing to help the girl. Send her away at once.’
The idiot must really be smitten if he thought to
foist his ladybird off on Mother. Fascinating. ‘If Christopher wants to invite Miss Boisette to stay here in my house, I am sure I have no objection. And if he feels obligated to find her a position as a governess, then I believe we should do everything we can to assist.’
Lady Stanford wrung her hands, but Christopher’s expression lightened and he clapped Garth on the shoulder. ‘Thank you. You won’t regret it. Despite her unfortunate…er…background, she is truly unexceptionable. You will have no reason to find fault with her manners, I promise you.’
He swung around to clasp his mother’s hands. ‘Mother, I’m sure you will be able to help her if you would just put your mind to it.’
‘Since Garth insists,’ his mother said with a sniff, ‘there is no more to be said. As he says, it is his house now.’
Garth ignored the slightly baleful stare that accompanied the words. His mother’s borderline insults no longer troubled him. While she never quite came out and spoke her mind, her dislike always simmered below the surface. As a child, he’d been mystified by her cold disapproval. As an adult, he’d seen right through her hypocrisy. Christopher, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to underlying tension filling the Evernden household. Garth could only imagine his brother’s resentment if he ever discovered the truth.
A chill ran down his spine. He shrugged it off. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn.
For now, Miss Boisette would provide an entertaining diversion. A cat among the pigeons. Or was she a pigeon for the cat? He almost licked his lips. She would relieve his boredom, annoy the hell out of his mother and he might even get a rise out of even-tempered Christopher.
‘Miss Boisette is very welcome to stay here as long as she wishes,’ Garth said.
Christopher strode towards the door. He halted in the doorway and glanced at his mother. ‘I will bring her to meet you at once.’
Lady Stanford patted her hair. ‘I’m sure I look a perfect fright. I really must tidy myself.’
‘You needn’t bother,’ Christopher said with a grin. ‘You always look beautiful.’
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