The Incomparable Countess - Mary Nichols

Скачать книгу

to London he had missed the long walks and exhilarating gallops he enjoyed at his Derbyshire home; he was becoming a sloth and putting on weight. Perhaps he should take up sparring again. Was he too old for that now? It might be interesting to find out if he had retained any of his old skill.

      Thinking of sparring made his thoughts turn to Fanny Randall—Lady Frances Corringham, he corrected himself with a wry smile. She had painted a picture of him stripped for a bout. He had been amazed at her skill and wanted it for himself, but she would not give it to him. ‘I did it for our eyes only,’ she had told him. ‘I will never part with it.’

      But that was before… He shrugged his shoulders as he skirted the notorious Seven Dials district towards Covent Garden. Had she kept it or had his perfidy made her hate him and the painting along with it? He had behaved badly towards her, but how was he to know she was expecting an offer? He had been in no position to make one; the match between him and Margaret Connaught had already been negotiated by their respective fathers and there was nothing he could do about it.

      He should never have sought her company so assiduously that summer, should never, never have told her he loved her, however true it was. But he had been a green twenty-three and not yet clever enough to hide his feelings, nor think of the consequences. He wanted to be with her, often compromised her by taking every opportunity to be alone with her, to hold her hand and smother her in kisses while declaring he could not live without her. And her eager responses had flattered him. He had even managed to take her on a picnic to Richmond, driving her in his curricle which had no room for anyone but the two of them, so they went without so much as a maid or a groom for a chaperon.

      He had not given a thought to what he was doing to her until the whole Connaught family descended on London from their home near Edinburgh and he found himself having to escort his intended for the rest of the Season and escaping to see Fanny became almost impossible. And when at last he did, at one of the Duchess of Devonshire’s balls, they had quarrelled.

      He had tried, after partnering her in a country dance, to explain about Margaret, telling her that it was an arranged marriage and did not in any way alter his feelings for her, but she would not listen. ‘If you think that I am such a bufflehead as to allow myself to become your chére amie—that is the term, is it not?—then you are glaringly abroad, my lord,’ she had hissed angrily.

      He had been shocked at her language and tried to deny that such a thing had ever entered his head, but afterwards, in the cold light of the following day, with his head aching from the wine and brandy he had consumed, he realised that she had been right. There was no way he could marry Margaret and continue to enjoy the company and kisses of Frances, except to take her as his mistress. But one did not make light o’ loves of seventeen-year-old girls only lately out of school. He wrote apologising for his behaviour and that was the end of the affair.

      Had she forgotten it? He did not think so, but she had certainly made a quick recovery because she had married Corringham almost immediately, making him wonder if the Earl had been waiting in the wings all along. And now they were both free again.

      It did not make any difference; they had grown up, matured, their characters had been forged on the anvil of life; they had become different people, strangers. He smiled, as he strode past the back of Carlton House towards St James’s Street and home—the latest on dit was that he was looking for another wife, but that was far from his intention. He was enjoying being single and was in no hurry to be leg-shackled again.

      If it had not been for pressing business, he would not even have come to Town, certainly not in the Season, but because he had to come and because his daughter was sixteen and behaved like a boy of twelve and it was about time she was taken in hand, he had brought her with him. He was even now awaiting the arrival of his sister from Ireland, whom he had asked to come over and give her some polish. Charlotte had been delayed by her children having measles and here he was alone in London with a far from acquiescent daughter. And he had not the faintest idea what to do with her!

      What he needed was someone like Frances Corringham. Fanny was cool and urbane, in the thick of everything, known by everyone. She was fashionably attired, knew how to conduct herself. She also had a prodigious talent. He laughed aloud, making one or two people nearby look sharply at him. They probably thought he was foxed, he did not care; it had come to him in a flash of inspiration, a way of keeping Lavinia occupied. He would ask the Countess of Corringham to paint her portrait and give her drawing and painting lessons.

      He need not be present and it would leave him free to go about the business which had brought him to London. But would she do it? Was she still angry enough to turn him down? But she did not seem particular about whom she painted and was prepared to flatter her sitters for a fat fee, so why should she treat him any differently, if money was all she cared about? Tomorrow he would call on her.

       Chapter Two

      Frances smiled as she left the door of the rundown tenement in Monmouth Street which was home to some twenty orphans. If her Society friends could see her now, they would have apoplexy, she decided—that is, if they recognised her at all. Hatless and dressed in a grey wool dress and a short pelisse, she looked the image of a very ordinary woman, the wife or widow of a clerk or some such, respectable but nondescript.

      Although, as Countess of Corringham, she was in the forefront of the charity which raised money for the orphans, it was as plain Mrs Fanny Randall that she worked at the orphanage, rolling up her sleeves to help bathe the children, or serve them the plain food which her money helped to provide. She loved the work and the children.

      ‘A real pied piper, you are,’ Mrs Thomas, the plump matron of the home, had said, adding that she must be sorry she had had no children of her own. Frances had passed it off with a smile, but her childlessness was the biggest regret of her life and something she found difficult to talk about.

      She climbed up beside John Harker, who had been instructed to come and fetch her at noon in her tilbury. He was used to her ways and made no attempt to stop her when she picked up the ribbons and drove them towards Oxford Street, which was lined with shops and businesses, its pavements full of pedestrians and street hawkers. She tooled the horses with consummate ease, weaving the light carriage neatly in and out of the medley of riding horses, carts and carriages of every description which filled the road. No one paid any attention to an unmarked vehicle being driven by a nobody, but the slight chance she might be seen and recognised led an added piquancy to the adventure.

      Less than twenty minutes later she turned into Duke Street and drew up with a flourish at the door of Corringham House, only to discover the Duke of Loscoe, dressed for riding, standing on the top step, apparently having found she was not at home and about to leave. She would have driven on in the hope he would not recognise her, but it was too late; he was standing quite still, staring at her. Was it in distaste? She could not be sure.

      There was nothing for it but to carry off the situation as if it were nothing out of the ordinary for ladies of the aristocracy to drive themselves about town in what was considered to be a single man’s carriage. Throwing the reins to Harker and instructing him to see to the horses, she jumped down with an agility which the ladies of the ton would have described as hoydenish if they could have seen her, and advanced towards him, smiling.

      ‘Your Grace, I did not expect you, or I would have been at home to greet you.’

      ‘Good day, Countess,’ he said, doffing his curlybrimmed hat and bowing, while at the same time his dark eyes appraised the simple clothes she wore and his eyebrows rose just a fraction. ‘If it is inconvenient…’ His voice tailed off.

      She smiled inwardly to think that he was more discomfited than she was. She could easily have asked him to come another time when she was prepared to receive him, but she had to admit to being a little curious. Why was he visiting her? Surely they could have nothing to say to each other after all this time? ‘It is not inconvenient, my lord. Please come in.’

      The door had been opened by a footman who stood on the threshold, waiting for her to step inside. She led the way. ‘Creeley,

Скачать книгу