‘What I tried to convey was that for once, Bella was quite carried away by the illicit excitement—the more acute sense of danger. The impulsive way she behaved, it was an outlet for her pent-up feelings.’
Mr Freyworth held up a hand. ‘You have no need to explain, madam, I quite understood it. What I was going to say was that I was also rather—forgive me, but this scene too had about it an authenticity which elevates your writing to a new plane.’
‘Oh! Oh, I see.’ Deborah gazed in confusion down at her gloves.
Across from her, Montague Freyworth was astonished to note a blush staining her pale cheeks. Not such a cold marble statue after all, the Widow Kinsail. Well, well. Mrs Freyworth would gobble up that little snippet. It was she who, unbeknownst to the authoress herself, was responsible for the critical reading of every one of Bella Donna’s lurid tales—tales which her husband found not just disturbing, but whose appeal he found incomprehensible. ‘What I wanted to say,’ Montague said, ‘was that I feel the book would benefit from—er—more of such scenes.’
‘More?’ A hysterical laugh, quickly stifled, escaped from Deborah. ‘I thought you were going to ask me to cut it.’
‘No, no.’ Montague shook his head vehemently, recalling his wife’s admonition. ‘It is felt—I feel—that is—frankly, my lady—I mean, madam—’ He broke off, drumming his grubby fingers on the blotting pad, trying desperately to think of a way of rephrasing Mrs Freyworth’s words. ‘The crime is all very well and good, but what really excites the reader is the aftermath. What I’m saying, Montague, is that the insertion is more interesting than the removal.’ He had to concede that his wife had a singular ability to express herself both graphically and succinctly. She was every bit as direct in the sanctity of their bedroom, a fact which was almost entirely responsible for their astonishingly satisfying marital relationship, but there were times—many times—when Montague wished that she would confine her remarks to that chamber.
He sighed heavily and inadvertently caught his
client’s gaze. He never had been able to decide, in all these years, what colour her eyes were. Was she laughing at him? He narrowed his own uncomplicated blue orbs, but could not be quite sure whether the tilt of her mouth was humour or impatience or simply a tic. She had a way of tilting her chin at him, lifting one brow—there, just like that—that made him feel rather more like an insect she wished to stamp on than he liked. Montague put down his paper knife once more and picked up the manuscript, tying the ribbon which bound it. Handing it back, he saw that it was rather dog-eared and saw, too, from the look of distaste on the Widow Kinsail’s face, that she had noticed and didn’t like it. The tiny glow of his having irked her gave him the momentum he needed.
‘The story needs another felony. And afterwards—well, suffice it to say that you can let that imagination of yours loose on your pen,’ he said with something approaching a wink. ‘Set the pages aflame, Lady Kinsail, and I am sure that we will run to three, maybe four editions.’
Deborah hesitated, torn between triumph and horror. ‘I had not planned…’
‘Nonsense! You’ve done exceeding well with the robbery of that statuette—how hard can it be to dream up another such?’ Mr Freyworth got to his feet in an effort to cut short any protestation. ‘Think of the returns, madam. Three, four editions I say, and that will be just the start. The interest will generate a demand for the earlier books, too, I am sure of it.’
He was actually rubbing his hands together, Deborah noticed, trying not to laugh, for Mr Freyworth’s tall, scrawny frame, the hollowed cheeks, the thin, fluffy covering of black hair through which his skull showed like an egg, combined with the dusty black clothes he wore, made him look like one of the neglected Tower ravens. She held out her hand, tucking her manuscript under the other arm. ‘I will attempt to do what you say, sir.’
‘I am sure you will not disappoint, madam. I look forward to seeing the results. And if you could perhaps manage to complete the revisions in—say two or three weeks?—then we shall, if we put our minds to it, be able to rush through the first edition in time for Christmas.’
‘I hardly think that Bella Donna’s exploits will be the most popular of yuletide gifts,’ Deborah said with a dry smile.
Montague Freyworth patted her shoulder. ‘Now then, my lady, you must allow me to know my business rather better than you. You would be surprised by the number of people who will purchase your little story if it is nicely bound and discreetly marketed. I will not say that you will see it on every drawing-room table, but I will make an informed guess that you will find it in most boudoir cabinets. Good day to you now, madam. And happy writing.’
Rather dazed, Deborah made her way out on to Piccadilly. If what Mr Freyworth said was true, the profits from her pen could free her from the necessity of relying upon her widow’s portion. Free her from the last tangible remnants which bound her to Jeremy. Just thinking about the possibility made her realise how much she still resented those ties, despite the knowledge that she was more than deserving of the income which was, after all, originally sourced from her very own inheritance.
Wandering down the busy street, oblivious to the swarms of traffic heading to the park, for it was the beginning of the Season and approaching the hour for parading, Deborah surrendered herself to the dream of independence. True independence. And all it would take, if Mr Freyworth were to be believed—and why should such an astute businessman lie?—was one more robbery and its aftermath. Surely she could do it?
* * *
Three days later, Deborah scrunched up another piece of paper ruined by crossings out and ink blots, with a hole in the middle where she’d pressed her pen too hard in sheer exasperation. She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t do it! Throwing the paper ball into the empty hearth with an accuracy born of far too much practice, she pushed back her chair and began to pace the room. Back and forwards she went, between the window and the far wall, a route taken so often that the carpet was beginning to show signs of wear. The familiar litany dogged every step.
Authenticity is the key.
Authenticity will bring you a third edition. A fourth.
Authenticity will bring you independence.
Independence will bring you freedom.
You will be free. Free of the past. Free of Jeremy. Free.
Authenticity will bring freedom.
Elliot is the key to authenticity.
Elliot.
You need Elliot.
You can’t do it without Elliot.
He’ll most likely be planning another robbery around about now in any case.
And it’s for a good cause. The money you give now to every beggarly soldier is a drop in the ocean compared to what his ill-gotten gains can do. You’d be helping save those men and saving yourself.
You need Elliot.
Elliot is the key.
You need Elliot.
You need to see Elliot.
And here, as ever, her mind skittered to a halt. It wasn’t that she needed to see him, it was that she needed his help. She hadn’t missed him. She hadn’t been disappointed every time the post brought no word, every time a knock on the door failed to produce him either in person or in the form of a messenger in the three weeks since she had forced him to say goodbye. He’d done what she wanted, he’d taken her at her word. He’d kept away.
So of course she was not looking for an excuse to get in touch with him. Absolutely not! Elliot Marchmont was an extremely attractive and intriguing man, but what she imagined him doing to her in the dark, in the secret of the night, it meant nothing. She knew perfectly well that there was a world of difference between fantasy and reality. She didn’t want him. Not
really. Not at all!
But she needed him. And unless she did something about it, she would have to pay her annual visit to Kinsail Manor next winter. Oh God no, she just couldn’t bear it. Which meant…
With a decisive nod, Deborah resumed her seat and picked up a fresh
pen. But having dashed off Elliot’s name at the start of her note, she was struck by indecision. Chewing absent-mindedly on the tip of her quill—a disgusting habit she’d never been able to break herself of—she stared blankly at the watercolour landscape which hung on the wall over her desk. It was not just the unequivocal way she had ended their acquaintance, she was horribly conscious of the fact that she would be exploiting his most noble cause to her own ends. She could not, in all conscience, do so without some sort of explanation. Besides, without some sort of explanation, she doubted very much indeed that Elliot would agree.
In fact, the more she pondered it, the more she wondered if Elliot would not—quite justifiably—refuse her request to speak to him. The most likely outcome of her asking him to call on her would be spending the next few days waiting in vain for him to do so, because why would he call when she’d been so determined never to see him again?
Perhaps, then, she should suggest that she would call on him? It was unconventional, improper even, though she doubted he would be any more bothered by this than she was. But what if he refused her entry to his house? A melodramatic vision of herself pleading on the doorstep with Elliot standing aloof, barring the way, failed to make Deborah smile, for it felt quite possible.
She dropped the pen as her confidence oozed slowly away. It was a familiar feeling. So many times, in Jeremy’s absence, she had rallied herself to try again, or latterly to tell him that she was done with the pretence that was their marriage, that she would not stay, that a separation would make them both less miserable. Every time, every single time, she’d failed, and every defeat crushed her a little further, like a mallet pushing a peg into the ground. Catching sight of her distorted reflection in the window pane, a curled, slumped figure, Deborah sat up straight in her chair. ‘Freedom,’ she said aloud to rally herself. ‘Think of it, Deb, freedom.’
No point in writing. She must leave nothing to chance. She would call on Elliot now. And if he was not at home, she would call again. And if he would not see her, she would refuse to go away until he did. And when he did, she would tell him. Not all, but enough to persuade him, enough to persuade herself, too, of the worthiness of her cause, even if it was a pale shadow of his.
Thus fortified, she ran lightly up the stairs to her bedchamber. Her sad little collection of gowns looked like the washed-out palette an artist would use to paint a November sea, but that could not be helped. Quickly changing into a walking dress and tidying her hair before she could change her mind, Deborah pulled on a pair of boots, tied her bonnet, fastened her pelisse and buttoned her gloves.
* * *
Elliot had returned to town in an even more morose mood than the one in which he had departed. Though he had tried to interest himself in the business of his estates, the factor whom Lizzie had trained was extremely efficient and Elliot had been unable to persuade himself that his presence was in any way necessary to the good heart of his land.
Ennui made him irritable and the feeling of unfinished business gnawed at him. No matter how hard he had tried, Deborah kept creeping into his mind and occupying his dreams. Her contradictions fascinated him and his fascination annoyed him. She was intriguing and beguiling, but she was also seriously emotionally repressed and apparently determined to remain so. She was wild and reckless one moment, totally lacking in confidence another. Her kisses were like no kisses he had ever shared, but they were not the kisses of an experienced woman. How could a wanton be an innocent? How could someone so incredibly attractive think herself, as she so patently did, so very ordinary? She was tough and she was fragile. The shadows cast by her past were enormous, but she refused to acknowledge them. She aroused his compassion and his passion. She encouraged his confidences, but would confide nothing willingly in return. It was pointless thinking about her and pointless trying to stop.
In the endless free hours his retreat from town had granted him, Elliot turned all of this over and over in his mind to absolutely no avail. Attempting to divert himself with the question of his future was equally frustrating. He needed to give his life form, but he had no idea what form he wished it to take; the only form which really interested him was Deborah’s. There was only one thing for it, Elliot decided, and that was to go back to London and resurrect the Peacock, even if his appeal was, frankly, diminished.
Deborah arrived upon his doorstep the very day he returned. His heart gave a most unexpected little skip at the sight of her standing in his hallway. Telling himself that he could hardly send her about her business without at least granting her a hearing, even if that is what she looked as if she expected him to do, Elliot ushered her into the parlour.
She was out of sorts, nervous, jumping when he closed the door firmly on his over-interested batman, who also served as major-domo. Her eyes were over-bright, her hat askew, as if she had been tugging at the ribbons while she waited. ‘Lady Kinsail. This is an unexpected surprise,’ Elliot said with a very small bow.
‘Deborah. It’s Deborah,’ she said, flinching at the irony in his tone.
‘Won’t you sit down?’
‘Thank you.’ She sat gingerly on the striped sofa. It was a pleasant room. Like Elliot, it was elegant without being ostentatious. Looking up at him through her lashes, she realised she’d forgotten again how tall he was. And the fierce look of him. And the way she liked the fierce look of him. His mouth. The top lip thinner. The grooves at the sides. She’d forgotten how he made her feel. Fluttery and soft and hot. Female.
Afraid that she would lose heart, she launched into speech. ‘I know I shouldn’t have called unannounced on you like this, but I wanted to see you and I was worried that—I thought if I wrote to you, you might ignore me. I could understand why, after the last time. I was rude, and I was most certain that I—that we should not—there are things—reasons—but that’s no excuse. Except I thought it was for the best, and as it turns out—in short, I had to see you.’
Elliot tried hard not to smile at this convoluted speech, tried to hold on to his hurt, tried not to be interested, and failed in every attempt. ‘I have been away, visiting my home in the country. If you had called yesterday, you would not have found me.’
‘Oh.’ The little tug upwards at the corner of his mouth, was it a smile? Deborah tentatively tried one of her own. ‘Are you well?’ she asked, though it was perfectly obvious that he was. ‘You look well,’ she added inanely. ‘The country air obviously agrees with you.’
‘You think so? I confess, I was rather bored.’
‘Oh.’ Deborah looked down at her hands. She seemed to have pulled off her gloves. There was a bluish tinge on the skin between her thumb and index finger which no amount of scrubbing could remove. ‘Your home, I don’t think you’ve mentioned where it is?’
‘Hampshire.’
‘You have family there? I mean I know that your father passed away and your sister is in town, but you must have other family. Most people do. Except me. But I am not most people.’ She was wittering, but as long as she did so, she would be able to postpone having to broach the subject she had come to discuss.
‘I have some cousins, but no other close family. It was just me and my factor, who is far too efficient for his own good.’
‘You should count yourself lucky, a good factor is worth his weight in gold. I don’t know how many times I told Jeremy that that man of his acted as though he was being asked to pay for repairs out of his own pocket. No wonder that we lost every decent tenant we had and the lands went to rack and ruin, but Jeremy didn’t seem to care. “I’ll be dead before I’ll be bankrupt,” he used to say, and—’ Deborah caught herself up short, colouring deeply. ‘Well anyway, you should count yourself lucky.’
‘And your husband? Was he right?’
‘What? Oh, you mean was he dead before he went bankrupt?’ She shook her head. ‘You’d think so, to hear his cousin talk, but it was not quite that bad. Most of the land was entailed and could not be sold, and the mortgages were not really—but that is not wh
at I came here to discuss.’
Elliot sat down beside her on the sofa, touched by that heartfelt little speech. Her profligate husband had obviously succeeded in emptying the coffers sufficiently to leave his widow in severely straitened circumstances, and, knowing the current Lord Kinsail’s miserly tendencies, it was unlikely that he’d made any attempt to alleviate them. ‘I’m glad now I took that blue diamond,’ he said impulsively. ‘If I’d have known, I’d have taken the family jewels as well and given them to you.’
He said it to make her smile, but Deborah’s expression was not amused. ‘I want nothing from the Kinsails and I don’t want your pity, Elliot.’
Her haughty look was back. She was as prickly as a damned thistle. ‘I wish you would tell me what it is you do want from me,’ he said, exasperated as much by himself as her abrupt change of mood, ‘because I haven’t a clue.’
‘I need the Peacock,’ Deborah blurted out. ‘I need to commit another felony.’
The starkness of this statement startled him into laughter and a combination of nerves, and the infectious quality of that rumbling sound which was like a rough caress, made Deborah laugh, too. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘Yes, it is. I need to commit another felony. You made it sound as if you’d been prescribed a purgative.’
‘Elliot, I am deadly serious.’
His smile faded. ‘Categorically, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Once was risky. To court such danger a second time would be foolish beyond belief.’
‘You have done so countless times.’
‘My life is my own to risk.’
‘As is mine.’
Elliot launched himself to his feet. ‘I don’t need an accomplice,’ he said through gritted teeth, furious with himself for having hoped that she had called simply because she wanted to see him. Furious at himself for having hoped anything at all when he had quite decided that he would think of her no longer. ‘I should have had my man turn you away. I cannot believe you have had the nerve to ask me this after you made it so perfectly clear that you wanted nothing more to do with me.’
Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah Page 10