The Midnight Man. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.
members could respond, Tyndall cleared his throat noisily, rising to stand behind his chair, gripping the high back. He surveyed each man with a piercing gaze from under shaggy gray brows, his muttonchop sideburns trembling. “Perhaps we should take this time and opportunity, gentlemen, to discuss more thoroughly the motivations and background of our host and benefactor. Shipping, banking—is that all we know? And is that enough?” Like a malodorous scent, the words hung in the air. “Because when we accept someone’s resources, are we not as a matter of principle—”
“What exactly are you getting at, sir?” interjected Lubbock, throwing down his pen.
Tyndall’s color rose along with his condemnation. “It isn’t simply rumor that the late marquess was hastened to his grave by the unceasing demands of one monstrously, unconscionably wealthy individual, Mr. Lubbock.”
Lubbock snorted. “Our host and benefactor simply rescued an old man from his own debauchery, not to mention the spendthrift and wasteful ways that would have landed even a peer in the poorhouse.”
Tyndall squared his rounded shoulders. “And what of the source of that wealth? This man materializes out of nowhere, with fleets of ships and international banks at his command? Who is his family? Where did he come from?”
“You expect him to be listed in Debrett’s, for God’s sake, Tyndall?” Busk asked, his own doubts and unease warring with the exigencies of the situation. “Where are these suspicions coming from? You must have your own font of information, so do tell, sir. Because if all of this is about the source of our host’s fortune, well then, that’s an old story we should probably dispense with right now.”
Tyndall gripped the back of his chair more tightly, his knuckles whitening. “As I have been unexpectedly called away earlier this evening, I shan’t have time over our repast to elaborate—”
“So you won’t be joining us for dinner,” interrupted Busk impatiently.
“Precisely, all the more reason I should like to address the members currently present with some of my reservations, culled from the most impeccable sources, I will vouchsafe.”
“A capital idea, Mr. Tyndall.”
The voice was a low growl, disarming and dangerous at the same time. And it came from the back of the salon where the richly paneled French doors had, at some point, silently eased open.
A tall man strode into the room, a grim smile spreading across his face.
The X Club’s generous host—Nicholas Ramsay.
At first, she didn’t know who she was. Where she was.
Panicked, she grappled for her name, clutching a pillow to her chest. In a hoarse voice she vaguely recognized as her own, she found it in the dark and began reciting it to herself like a creed or a well-worn article of faith, willing the curtain to lift.
The bed was wide with heavy satin sheets weighing her down. Only then did she remember.
Her work, the attack, Ramsay.
Helena bolted from the covers with a groan.
Her bare feet sunk into three inches of carpet before she noticed the bed crown draped in blue-watered silk, the size of a small stage. The room was sumptuous beyond description, even for the standards of the Duke of Hartford and Belgravia Square. Rich wall paneling was interrupted by drawings of classical figures—she peered at a trio of nymphs frolicking around a fountain—quite possibly from Renaissance Florence. A pair of Louis IV Bergeres flanked the fireplace next to a small French desk made of exotic materials and set with a black and gold cup and saucer.
A gilded prison instead of Bedlam.
A quick exploration of the dressing room revealed her cloak, dress, drawers, corset, and chemise neatly pressed and waiting for her inspection. Bronze candleholders decorated an oversize English tall chest with eight drawers, next to a three-door French armoire, which, she discovered quickly, was empty. A water closet, equipped with the most modern fittings available, included a porcelain bathtub.
Back in the bedroom, a small mantel clock in ormolu and statuary white marble told her it was six in the evening and that she had slept nine hours since first stepping into Nicholas Ramsay’s London home.
He didn’t belong here. That much was clear.
It was impossible to reconcile the startlingly masculine and physically imposing man with the overly refined and studied décor of Conway House. Unless he had a wife, which somehow she doubted. He was too dangerous, too unmanageable. Her pulse jumped, the image of the bodies littering the atelier imprinted on her mind’s eyes. She swallowed hard, the shambles of the previous night rolling over her.
Who was Nicholas Ramsay and what did he want from her?
She quickly unbuttoned the demure nightgown she was wearing, her fingers stiff with nervousness. Convent-made lace, virginal and pure, encircled the neckline like a noose, and she was reminded of the ridiculous confection she’d been forced to wear on her wedding night. And the look in her husband’s eyes, cold and hungry at the same time.
With a sharp tug, the nightgown sailed over her head and onto the floor. Tossing it onto the bed, she recalled instead the tense silence that had accompanied her hurried arrival at the house north of Oxford Street midmorning. Fleeing from London’s constabulary with Nicholas Ramsay to this house was madness, part of the cloud of unreality that refused to dissipate. She was determined Conway House would be a temporary prison, despite its splendid five bays on its south front and a large Venetian window at its center topped with three stories like a wedding cake.
Temporary. Because at this moment, Ramsay was all she had and she would make the most of him. Freedom would be hers at any price.
Her heart ricocheted in her chest. She hated running, but she would not wait like a lamb to the slaughter for Sissinghurst’s men to make another appearance. If Ramsay was somehow part of the bishop’s plot against her, she would manage that too. She closed her eyes against the image of his hands and mouth on her body, burning like a desert sun.
Her eyes flashed open. She wasn’t pliant and she was never the docile doll her father or her husband had wanted her to be. Her moods, her outbursts, her unpredictability meant survival, an amalgam of determination and passion that neither her father nor her late husband had been able to strip away from her. Why then had she not been able to shut Ramsay out, to pretend?
Ten minutes later, she had completed her ablutions and impatiently drew her dress over her drawers, chemise, and corset. She was not a vain woman and her working garb had never included crinolines or hoops, fashion representing simply another stricture that had been forced upon her.
She hurried over to the exquisite French escritoire and penned a quick note on a page of smooth vellum to Horace Webb. She didn’t want to involve him any further in the disaster that was her life, save to spare him worry and apprise him that she was staying at Conway House until further notice.
A discreet pull on the servant’s bell produced a maid who took away her missive but not before presenting her with a note on a heavy silver plate, the bold black strokes dark against the white paper, giving away the author.
Helena glanced quickly at the message. Her presence in the dining room was requested for eight o’clock.
Her pulse jumped. That gave her thirty minutes to discover exactly how to use Nicholas Ramsay before he could use her.
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