The Disgraceful Mr Ravenhurst. Louise AllenЧитать онлайн книгу.

       August 1816—Vezelay, Burgundy

      The naked female figure danced in timeless sensual abandon, revelling in the provocation of her blatant sexuality. The face of the hapless man watching her was etched with mingled despair and lust as he reached out for her, blind and deaf to the imploring prayers of the holy man who watched the scene unfold from behind a pillar.

      It was hard to see the detail clearly in the shadows, and having to crane her neck upwards did not help, but the scene was unmistakable—and who was at fault, equally plain.

      ‘Honestly! Men!’ Exasperated, Elinor stepped backwards, furled parasol, rigid sketch book, sharp elbows and sensible boots, every one of them an offensive weapon.

      ‘Ough!’ The gasp from behind her as she made contact with something solid, large and obviously male, was agonised. ‘I beg your pardon,’ the voice continued on a croak as she swung round, fetching the man an additional thwack with her easel.

      ‘What for?’ she demanded, startled out of her customary good manners as she turned to face the doubled-up figure of her victim. ‘I struck you, sir. I should apologise, not you.’

      As he straightened up to a not inconsiderable height, a shaft of sunlight penetrated the cracked glass of the high window, illuminating a head of dark red hair that put her own tawny locks to shame. ‘You were expressing dissatisfaction with the male sex, ma’am; I was apologising on behalf of my brothers for whatever sin we are guilty of this time.’ His tone was meek, but she was not deceived—there was strength in the deep voice and a thread of wicked amusement.

      Yes, said a voice inside Elinor’s head. Yes. At last. She shook her head, blinking away the sun dazzle and whatever idiocy her mind was up to, and stepped to one side to see her victim better. He was smiling, a conspiratorial twist of his lips that transformed a strong but not particularly distinguished face into one that was disarmingly attractive. Somehow he had succeeded in charming an answering smile out of her.

      She was not, Elinor reminded herself sternly, given to smiling at strange men. It must be part and parcel of hearing things. The voice had gone away now; no doubt it had been some trick of an echo in this cavernous place.

      ‘I was referring to that capital.’ Hampered by her armful of belongings she dumped them without ceremony on a nearby pew, keeping hold only of the furled parasol, partly as a pointer, partly because of its merits as a sharp implement. All men, her mother was apt to warn her, were Beasts. It was as well not to take risks with chance-met ones, even if they did appear to be polite English gentlemen. She gestured with the parasol towards the richly carved column top, Number 6B in her annotated sketches. ‘It is a Romanesque capital; that is to say—’

      ‘It was carved between 1120 and 1150 and is one of a notable series that makes the basilica of Vezelay an outstanding example of religious art of the period,’ he finished for her, sounding like an antiquarian paper on the subject.

      ‘Of course, I should have realised that, if you are visiting the basilica, you must understand architecture,’ she apologised, gazing round the wreckage of the once-great church. Outside of service times no one else was going to enter here on a whim. ‘Are you a clergyman, sir?’

      ‘Do I look like one?’ The stranger appeared mildly affronted by the suggestion.

      ‘Er…no.’ And he did not, although why that should be, Elinor had no idea. Many men of the cloth must have red hair. Some must also possess smiles that invited you to smile right back at a shared, and slightly irreverent, joke. And, without doubt, tall and athletic figures graced pulpits up and down the land.

      ‘Thank goodness for that.’ She noticed that he offered no explanation of himself in response to her question. ‘So…’ He tipped back his head, fisting his hands, one of which held his tall hat, on his hips to balance himself. ‘What exactly is it about this particular scene that merits your ire, ma’am?’

      ‘It shows, as usual, a man succumbing to his own base animal instincts and lack of self-control and blaming his subsequent moral downfall upon a woman,’ she said crisply.

      ‘I must say, your eyesight is excellent if you can deduce all that in this light.’

      ‘I have been studying the capitals for a week now with the aid of an opera glass; one gets one’s eye in.’ Elinor stared round at the nave, littered with crumbling masonry, broken pews and rubbish. ‘I have had to go round at least three times in an attempt to interpret as many as possible when the light is at its best. It is still possible to do that, but unless something is done very soon, I fear they may all fall or be damaged beyond repair or study. See the holes in the roof? The carvings must be exposed to the elements, even in here.’

      ‘You are a scholar, then?’ He was squinting upwards, his eyes fixed on the carved figures, frozen in their eternal masque of temptation and yielding. ‘Researching the iniquities of the medieval male mind, perhaps?’

      ‘My mother is the scholar, I am merely recording the carvings for her detailed study. She is an authority on the early churches of France and England.’ Elinor could have added that the medieval male mind probably differed little from its modern counterpart when it came to moral turpitude, but decided against it. It was not as though she had any experience of turpitude to base the assertion upon.

      ‘Indeed?’ The man switched his attention from the carving to her face and this time the smile lit up his eyes as well. They were green, she noticed. An unusual clear green, like water over pebbles, not the indeterminate