Caught in Scandal's Storm. Helen DicksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
you understand me, Alice? Roberta must not know of this.’
‘Yes—yes, of course,’ she murmured.
Without another word Lady Marchington walked out of the room.
* * *
A while later, lying in bed with her eyes wide open, Alice reflected on the strange occurrence that had taken place in her chamber and the man who had disrupted the events of the evening. What had happened to him to make him so objectionable? She suspected there was more to it than his broken engagement to Roberta. What Lady Marchington had disclosed about his past disturbed her. He had been a slave, she had said. How could that be? Alice wondered. There was something indestructible about Lord Tremain, something fear-provoking that made her shiver.
* * *
Ewen left the house with a firestorm of humiliated fury erupting from his heart, burning its way through every nerve, every vein and every artery. His pulse pounded out a primal drumbeat as he strode through the snow to where Amir was waiting with a horse.
With Roberta Hislop by his side, he had been looking forward to beginning a life as near normal as was possible for him. So he had been taken aback to find Lady Marchington had betrothed her to someone else—a Viscount, no less. He clenched his mouth in a grim line in roiling anger and persistent shame of himself, of the monster he had become.
The pain was back again. Not the crippling pain he had felt from the wounds inflicted on him by the whip, but the other, the bad, the unthinkable hurt that was inside him. It had no definite location, but filled the whole of him. It was inside and out, expanding until it tore through his veins.
During his years in captivity, where torture, deprivation and helplessness—compounded by Etta’s treachery—had driven him to the brink of madness, he had struggled to retain his grip on sanity. He had sustained himself by focusing his mind on escaping his torturers and returning to the world as he had known it to pursue a normal life.
In his mood of dismal self-loathing, his eyes were often fierce. They were wild sometimes—with pain, with passion. Sometimes when he was alone, they were deep and dark and brooding—haunted, as he had been when he’d gone to live with his brother in Bordeaux after his captivity. His family had worried about him. They could not conceal it. He could not wipe out what had been done to him.
‘Ewen,’ his brother had said, ‘you will either be destroyed by it—or you will change it. There won’t be any compromises.’
His brother had been right. He would not let what had happened to him destroy him. But he was a changed man, no longer the light-hearted youth who had loved life and lived it to the full.
That honest part of his mind, that he had no control over, whispered, You would give your soul to be like him again, wouldn’t you, Ewen? To laugh as he had once laughed, to be witty and gay, to dance and whisper words like pearls into a woman’s ear.
On meeting Roberta—sweet, innocent Roberta—he’d believed he had been given a second chance at an untainted life. He would not allow Lady Marchington to rob him of that. He was Lord Ewen Tremain, master of Barradine, a man of honour. Having lost his dignity and self-respect for eight years of his life, it was important for him to assert his place in the world and fulfil past obligations.
A voice inside his head told him he should forget Roberta. To hell with her and her sweet and gentle face, her refined manners and her fine friends and her brilliant Viscount. He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anyone, but he could not, would not, leave Lady Marchington with the upper hand. She did not deserve to get off the hook so easily. It was intolerable to his pride and he would not let it rest.
He almost had the old woman, but not quite. He had to play his last card.
Taking a sealed letter from his pocket and a small purse of coin, he handed them to Amir. ‘Take these, Amir. Find one of the servants who will deliver the letter to Miss Hislop. Bribe them if you must, but instruct them to be discreet.’
* * *
After Ewen returned to his lodgings, his mind remained occupied with the evening’s events and the indomitable Countess of Marchington. But the last thing he thought of before he went to sleep was the young woman whose teeth had punctured his flesh when she had fought to defend herself from him, of the gentle fragrance of her perfume and the warmth and feel of her body when he had held her close.
Their meeting had affected him. As they had waited for Lady Marchington, he recalled how intrigued he had been at the way her hair had seemed to twine of its own free will about her shoulders. As his eyes had passed over her face, he was rather amazed to find the shape and delicate structure appealed to his senses. Her slender nose had the sauciest tilt, her eyelids the longest, darkest lashes, her brows were wide-sweeping above eyes that had seemed the bluest blue he had ever seen.
* * *
The following morning while the house was being set to rights following the ball, with Roberta and Lady Marchington still abed, Alice ordered the carriage and left the house to obtain sufficient funds with which to pay Duncan Forbes for information about her father. She hated having to sell some of her jewellery, but William had made her Lady Marchington’s ward until she either reached twenty-one or married, and she did not have direct access to the money William had placed at her disposal.
A pawnbroker in Drury Lane bought her jewels for a fraction of their value, but it was enough to pay Mr Forbes when she kept their appointment later in the afternoon.
* * *
When Alice returned to the house, Roberta followed her into her room. There was a wild, almost desperate look about her. Alice looked at her with concern.
‘Why, Roberta, what on earth is the matter? What has happened to make you look so anxious?’
‘Alice, I am beset by a grave problem,’ she murmured dismally. ‘Something quite dreadful has occurred and I need your help desperately. There is no one else I can ask.’
Alice stared at her, wondering what on earth could have happened. ‘I cannot help until I know the nature of the problem. What troubles you, Roberta? Why do you say such a thing?’
‘A letter has been delivered to me from Lord Tremain. It was given to my maid. It would appear he is in London. Oh, Alice, what am I to do?’
Alice looked at her sharply. ‘Lord Tremain? But—what did the letter say and why did he not come to the house?’
‘He did. This morning. But according to my maid, Aunt Margaret told Simpson to say she wasn’t at home to him. He wants to meet me. But how can I? After all this time? Where has he been since he pledged his troth to me?’
‘When does he suggest you meet? Where?’
‘This afternoon at four o’clock—in the park. But of course I couldn’t possibly. Aunt Margaret would have a seizure. It’s quite out of the question.’
‘Yes—yes, of course it is.’ Alice’s brow puckered in a thoughtful frown. It was clear to her that Lady Marchington had said nothing to her niece about Lord Tremain’s visit the night before and did not intend to. Alice would not betray her confidence, even though she felt like a traitor for not doing so.
‘I do not want my association with Lord Tremain to jeopardise my betrothal to Hugh.’ Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘Oh, Alice, I couldn’t bear it. Will you help me? Will you go to Lord Tremain and explain why I cannot see him, that under the circumstances it would not be appropriate?’
There was such anguish in her eyes that Alice was deeply moved by it. She was sensitive to Roberta’s uncertainty and understood only too well the troubling disquiet Lord Tremain could rouse in a newly betrothed’s breast. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she promised. ‘Where can I find him?’
‘He said he would be looking out for me. Please don’t tell Aunt Margaret, Alice. When you explain to Lord Tremain that I am betrothed to someone else, I am certain he will understand and not trouble us again.’
*