‘Unfortunately, that’s not possible. Mark has some business to take care of. These things cannot be done in a hurry—but rest assured we will leave before the month is out.’
* * *
Arriving at the house in Belgravia Sofia was renting for the time she was in London, a fashionable and tastefully furnished house, Lucy asked to be excused so that she could go to her room and freshen up. She was relieved to be by herself at last, away from Sofia’s oppressive presence. Kicking off her shoes, she lay on the bed and tried to sort out her thoughts. It had been an eventful day and she had much to think about. One thing she was certain about was that she did not like her stepmother. Lucy sensed a scheming nature behind her smiles. Knowing there was little she could do to change things just then, but feeling she must do something, she immediately wrote a letter to her godmother, begging her to help her.
* * *
Christopher had been halfway to London when he missed the satchel. The papers it contained were pertaining to the sale of his ship. He had a buyer in Paris who was interested in purchasing it so it was imperative that he retrieved the satchel. Cursing his carelessness, he had told Jacob to go on ahead while he rode back to Broughton to look for it, although he didn’t hold out much hope of finding it. He was right. After doing a thorough search and making enquiries it could not be located. It was as he was about to leave that he thought of Lucy Walsh.
He recalled having it on his shoulder when he rushed to her aid. That was the moment it had dropped off his shoulder on to the grass. It was a long shot, but it could be possible that she had found it and handed it in to someone.
* * *
Having asked for directions to the academy, he was soon there. The proprietress, Miss Brody, was pleased to help. Knowing that Lucy had been at the fair with Emma, she immediately sent for her. Emma told him that, yes, they had found the satchel and that in the mayhem that followed her stepmother’s arrival, Lucy had taken it with her to her stepmother’s house in Belgravia. In fact, Captain Wilding must have passed the carriage on the way.
Thanking them, Christopher left for London, happy that the retrieval of his satchel gave him the opportunity to see Miss Walsh once more.
* * *
Lucy didn’t want to meet Mr Barrington, yet pride and vanity made her take care of her toilette and choose a suitable gown. She had few fashionable clothes for social occasions, which her godmother had told her would be remedied once she had finished her education and she could take her out in society before leaving for America.
With a smooth and practised grace, Sofia presented Lucy to Mr Barrington. He was tall, dressed in a dark blue frock suit, and handsome enough, with sultry features and dangerously hooded eyes. There was a certain swagger about him and he exuded all the confidence of a conceited charmer. But he didn’t charm Lucy. His expression was one of hauteur and he stared at her with masculine speculation. She sensed the scrutiny of his gaze, and some instinct told her that this was a man she should be very careful with. When Sofia introduced them there was a light in his eyes and a wrongness about him Lucy could not explain. Whatever it was it made the contents of her stomach curdle.
‘Miss Walsh, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I have heard a great deal about you from your father.’
His voice was as smooth as silk. While his eyes noted her perfunctory curtsy, he studied her closely, his eyes absorbing every detail of her face and figure with its tiny waist, the watered silk of her gown with the gentle swelling of her bosom. Concealing the rush of dislike and repugnancy that washed over her, Lucy struggled to maintain her composure.
‘Sofia tells me you are a planter, Mr Barrington, in Louisiana.’ He nodded. ‘Do you know my father well?’
‘I do. We have known each other for many years and I hold him in the highest esteem.’
‘Mark is a frequent visitor to Aspendale, Lucy. My dear husband always welcomes his company.’
‘Yes,’ Lucy remarked. ‘Father is a sociable person. I remember the house always being full of guests—more so when my mother was alive.’
* * *
Lucy hadn’t missed the grimace on Sofia’s face at the mention of her husband’s first wife. She had realised that when Sofia’s mind was made up about anything she would not take kindly to being taken to task and would lose no opportunity to undermine her confidence and belittle her, so she wasn’t surprised when during the main course she immediately brought up the subject she had been dreading.
‘Tomorrow we will visit the shops, Lucy. I think we should put our mind to having you fitted for some new gowns now you are no longer at the academy and about to move in society. We will also give some thought to your wedding gown—something creamy white, I think.’
Lucy stopped eating and stared at her. ‘A wedding gown? I have told you, Sofia, I have no wish to get married—not to Mr Barrington or anyone else for that matter. I do not know Mr Barrington and I certainly don’t recall him doing me the courtesy of asking me to be his wife.’
‘Lucy, kindly guard your tongue,’ Sofia chided.
‘I’ll thank you to stay out of this, Sofia,’ Mr Barrington said sharply.
He continued to converse, respectful and polite and solicitous to Lucy’s comfort. His manner was rather stiff at first, but he relaxed over the meal and several glasses of wine. He paid Lucy a good deal of attention. She wasn’t flattered by it, but unnerved. They talked of trivialities—she talked of life at the academy, he talked of places like New Orleans and Natchez. For her part Sofia spoke very little as she watched the by-play between these two, her eyes sharp and assessing. Lucy couldn’t wait for the meal to end so she could escape to her room.
Then Mr Barrington’s eyes narrowed and his mouth pulled itself into a smile so contrived that it was little more than a sneer. ‘So, Lucy, you imply that you are not enthusiastic about marrying me.’
Lucy did not shrink from his sarcasm. ‘Indeed, that is so, sir.’
‘I can understand that perfectly. You are young. You have just finished your education. Every young lady wants to experience her first soirée, her first ball. I will make sure you do not lack for entertainment for the short time we are in London.’
‘You are all kindness, Mr Barrington.’
His eyes narrowed at the irony in her tone of voice. ‘However, I see no reason why we cannot become affianced in the meantime.’
‘I will do nothing until I have heard from my father. Might I remind you that I have not agreed to a marriage between us and, since there is no pressure of circumstance, I see no reason to rush into a marriage with anyone.’
‘Forgive my bluntness, but the matter is far more complex than you could possibly understand.’
Lucy felt her hackles rise, but forced herself to remain calm. ‘Really? You underestimate my intelligence, Mr Barrington.’
‘Not at all, my dear. I simply recognise that young ladies like yourself have no head for these things. Your father has agreed to the marriage—indeed, he is anxious for the wedding to take place before we leave for Louisiana.’
‘And I have told you that I will do nothing until I have confirmation from my father that this is what he wants.’
‘You must allow yourself to be guided by those who understand these things.’
‘And my dowry?’ she asked bluntly. He talked as if as a woman, her life, had neither worth nor meaning in the real world of men. ‘Has he been generous with that?’
‘We have come to an agreement—but I sought to spare you the trivial details. However, if you insist on a full explanation...’
‘I insist on it,’ she said, very much to his surprise.
‘Very well—but it is not a subject for the dinner table.’
‘No. I agree,’ she said, with a tight smile.
There was a hint of presumptuousness in his manner and there were times when he could not veil the look of calculation in his eye
s. Mark Barrington looked like an elegant predatory animal who had discovered his prey and was biding his time before pouncing. The thought sent a shudder down her spine. She did not like him. He was determined and grasping, but he would not find her as easy to manipulate as he imagined.
But she must not underestimate him. This was definitely a man she should be careful of. Her cloak of cynicism and the feeling that all was not as it should be stayed with her long after Mr Barrington had left. She had always sailed through life, happy and carefree. Now she felt there was something malevolent in it.
Having no desire to remain in Sofia’s company a moment longer, Lucy excused herself.
Sofia allowed herself a little smile. ‘Well, Lucy, what do you think of Mark? He’s charming, don’t you agree?’
‘No, Sofia. Mr Barrington did not make a favourable impression on me and, now I have met him I am more determined not to marry him than I was before.’
Sofia’s smile faded abruptly as she rose to her feet. ‘You wretched girl. You will marry him. If it’s the last thing I do I will see you wed.’ In a swirl of silver and blue chenille and a cloud of expensive perfume, she marched from the room, apparently not caring that the door shook as she slammed it forcefully behind her.
When she had gone, Lucy finally allowed her defences to crumble—her shoulders slumped and she buried her face in her hands. By heaven, she would not stay here and be forced to marry Mr Barrington, no matter how much her father wanted it or how advantageous the match. Despite his intentions where she was concerned, Lucy was determined to rid herself of him as soon as Aunt Caroline returned. She couldn’t go through with becoming his wife. Anything, even returning to the academy and becoming a tutor herself, would be preferable to marrying Mr Barrington. There had to be some way out of her predicament.
She did have money of her own, enough to pay her passage to America if need be or to go to Paris to see her godmother, but she was aware of the dangers of a young woman travelling alone so she made up her mind to wait before taking such drastic action. But in the meantime she must be wary.
Was there no one to protect her? The two people she loved most in the world—her father and her godmother—were too far away to be of help, but an image of Captain Wilding suddenly rose in her mind. He was a sea captain, a man who had to be intelligent, with practical common sense, a man capable of forming an independent assessment in any given situation. He had to be fair but hard, dependable, a man his crew could respect and have absolute confidence in.
She recalled that he had mentioned he was to go to Paris. Was it possible that he could be persuaded to take her with him? It was presumptuous of her, she knew that, and it was highly likely he would refuse, but it was a lifeline she had to cling to, hoping it would get her out of this intolerable situation.
* * *
The next morning when Lucy left the house, attired in a cloak over a lavender gown and carrying Captain Wilding’s satchel, she did so quietly so as not to disturb Sofia. Hiring a hackney, she instructed the driver to take her to Hanover Square. There was no sign that she had spent a sleepless night trying to come to a decision about her future course of action or that she was still trying to bolster the courage to carry out the wild plan she had conceived. But her delicate jaw was set with determination. Sofia had provoked more than her own anger—the woman had aroused in Lucy an instinct for self-preservation. But she was also struck with the fear that, as she had no one else to turn to, only this stranger, if he would not help her then she was doomed.
London was gilded with sunlight and bustling with activity. In the elite environs of Mayfair, dwellings were elegant, smart cabriolets driven by prideful drivers passed up and down the thoroughfares, along with carriages pulled by well-matched, fine-blooded teams. When the cab halted outside the address she had given him, handing the driver his fee, with her heart pounding in her chest, she climbed the steps to the house.
It was the same as all the others in the square—large and elegant with Doric columns flanking the black-painted door. Gathering all her courage, she squared her shoulders and made perhaps the most dangerous and important decision of her life. Raising the brass knocker with a determined lift of her arm, she hit the door to announce her arrival.
A man she assumed to be the butler opened the door and, yes, he said, Captain Wilding was at home. Forcing herself to ignore the fluttering in her stomach, she stepped inside. The hall was bathed in sunlight, revealing the fine plastering and elegant marble stairs rising to a gallery. Decorated in soothing shades of cream and green, it possessed a simple elegance. Tasteful paintings and shimmering gilt mirrors hung on the walls. She was shown into a large room and told to wait. He would ask Captain Wilding if he would see her.
Gingerly perching on a sofa, she looked around her. Fresh flowers in a porcelain vase were arranged on the marble mantelpiece. She admired the elegant silk damask furniture and the Persian carpet, which shimmered with vivid colours. Tall French windows overlooked a terraced garden. It was not the kind of house in which she imagined a seaman would have lodgings. Did Captain Wilding own this house? she wondered. If so, he must be very rich.
Minutes passed. She sat there, clutching the satchel, feeling the tension mounting inside her. Then she heard footsteps and, fixing her eyes on the door, watched him enter. He was as tall as she remembered, slender and as handsome as a god with those perfectly chiselled features, She could see he was surprised to see her. Clearly he had not been expecting callers at this hour of the morning. His linen shirt was open at the throat and thin enough to reveal the sculpted muscles beneath, and his snug black breeches were moulded to his legs. Standing up, she threw back the hood of her cloak, unaware that even without ornamentation she appeared as young and fresh as a spring breeze. She waited for him to cross towards her, watching him, admiring him, suddenly shy of him. She was physically attracted to him—no woman could be immune to that potent magnetism. He inspired emotions she had never felt before, marvellous, conflicting emotions.
‘You—you remember me? We met at the fair.’ He smiled at her, a heated, knowing smile, which gave her hope that he would help her.
‘This is my lucky day. I remember, for once having made your acquaintance that would not be something I would forget. This is a pleasant surprise. Indeed it is. Ah, I see you have my satchel. Thank God you found it. You have also saved me a journey. I was going to call on you later.’
‘You were? How did you know I had it?’
‘When I realised I had mislaid it I went back to the fair and made enquiries. I went to your academy on the off chance that you might have found it. Your friend Emma told me that you had and that you had it with you.’
‘I see. I hope you don’t mind, but I looked inside and saw this address on one of the papers.’
‘No, I don’t mind. I’m glad you did. Thank you. Are you alone?’
‘Yes—I—I...’ Lowering her eyes, she chewed on her lip, at a loss as to how to continue. How could she ask someone she didn’t know to help her? But whoever he was, her excellent instincts told her that she could trust this man.
He looked down at her, frowning, his eyes delving into hers. ‘You appear troubled. Is something wrong?’
‘Yes,’ she replied quickly, meeting his gaze. Summoning up her nerve, she said, ‘I—I’m sure you will think me presumptuous, and I cannot blame you, but I would like to ask you a favour.’
‘A favour?’ His eyes narrowed in sudden wariness. ‘What sort of favour, exactly?’
Her confidence wavered a little, but with her heart in her throat she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. ‘I—I was wondering—I recall you telling me that you were going to Paris shortly.’
He stiffened, his eyes glittering with the wary gaze of a seasoned warrior. Putting his hands on his lean hips, he regarded her with a frown. ‘You do have a way of knocking a man between the eyes, don’t you, Miss Walsh? I did say that, a
lthough I’m surprised you remember. Why?’
‘Will you take me with you—to France?’ Too naive to know how to hide her feelings, the words came out in a rush and she waited, holding her breath, for him to reply. She lifted her eyes to his and her longing for him to agree to her wish was there in their soft depths.
‘Good Lord!’ The words were exhaled slowly, but otherwise, he simply stared at her.
Somewhat heartened that she hadn’t been refused outright, Lucy went on. ‘Before you give me your answer, perhaps I should mention that I am quite desperate to leave London.’
‘So why are you running away?’
She stared at him, looking wary and perplexed. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I don’t, but you’ve just confirmed my suspicion.’ He paused, studying her. ‘Has someone hurt you—been cruel to you? Frightened you?’
‘No, nothing like that. If you must know, my father has arranged my marriage to a man he deems suitable. I think he’s a family friend.’
‘And you don’t want to marry him.’
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘Is there someone else you would rather marry?’
‘Good heavens, no. I don’t want to get married—not to anyone—at least not yet. I’ve only just finished my education. I’m not ready to get married. But this is so unlike my father. I can’t help feeling that there is something wrong.’
‘I recall you telling me your godmother is in Paris. Have you written to her?’
‘Yes, but it will be ages before she replies.’
‘Is there no one you can stay with until you hear from your godmother?’
‘No—only Emma, but she is still at the academy. If it were possible, I would take ship for America and demand to know what my father is playing at.’
‘When did you last hear from him?’
A Viscount to Save Her Reputation Page 4