Regency Society. Ann LethbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
second.’
‘Eleanor, have you heard the news? Cristo Wellingham was involved in a fight near Blackfriars Bridge. It is said that he broke one man’s nose and another man’s arm. His family, as you can imagine, is not pleased.’ Diana’s face was full of distaste. ‘A gentleman should not be seen in such circumstances and especially a lord freshly come from France and nearing the age of thirty.’
Sophie giggled. ‘He is a very fine fighter from all the gossip I have been hearing …’ She stopped as her mother frowned.
‘Only reputation separates us from the hoi polloi, my girl, and things of this nature have the result of making those just beneath us in breeding sit up and ask questions. The Wellinghams have a duty to rein such wildness in.’
‘Was he hurt?’ Eleanor asked as soon as Diana stopped speaking.
‘Several cuts around the eyes, apparently! The boy was always trouble, for goodness’ sake, just look at that nasty business with your brother. In his favour I did hear that he went to Bornehaven Grange to try to explain what had happened with Nigel, but your uncle ran him off.’
Eleanor tried to imagine what the eighteen-year-old Cristo Wellingham might have said to her family. Nigel was dead by an accident at his hand according to the gossip and he had left England the following day, a son of Falder who was never to return to it. What forced a man to that kind of disconnection?
Another more worrying thought surfaced as well. What if the fight here in London had something to do with the blackmail letters that she had told him of? Would he be crucified by society for a promise he had made to her? A woman who would lie about the parentage of her own daughter?
Everything that had been simple was no longer, because, although another letter had not come, she found herself watching each and every stranger who came near to them. In the park. In the reading rooms at Hookham’s. In the safety of shops she had once enjoyed wandering in.
Watching and fearing.
‘I think we should have a walk after lunch for the day is lovely and I don’t wish to miss it. Would you come too, Eleanor? Martin is having a sleep after all and you have not been anywhere in days.’
Feeling the sun slanting into the room and Florencia tugging at her sleeve, Eleanor relented. With Diana, Sophie and Margaret and a multitude of other servants accompanying them, surely nothing could go wrong and Hyde Park on a Saturday was a busy and safe place.
Shaking away her nervousness, she took a breath. She wouldn’t let the past trap her for ever and Cristo Wellingham had promised her that he would deal with any problems should they arise.
Still, to make certain that Florencia was safe, she would instruct her daughter to stay by her side.
An hour later Eleanor was becoming less and less sure of the wisdom of agreeing to such an outing as the clouds rolled in and the park emptied. Still, Diana seemed unperturbed by any oncoming weather.
‘I tell you that it will not rain, Sophie, and a bit of wind and drizzle does wonders for any young girl’s countenance. Keep up, Margaret, and you, too, Lainie. Florencia, hold your mother’s hand as she has asked you to or I will instruct Molly to take you home immediately.’
Florencia conceded, even as Eleanor promised herself that this would indeed be the last walk she took with Martin’s very bossy younger sister.
Already the first spits of rain worried her gown and she drew her daughter in closer.
‘Up ahead there are some trees. We will shelter there until Harold returns with the coach.’ Even Diana had her limits of enduring a storm.
A line of oaks looked very isolated and forlorn in the wet. Still, she could do nothing except follow the group as they dashed towards them.
It was then that she saw them. Two men walking at an angle, cutting across the grass and looking straight at her. The tallest of them seemed vaguely familiar, though she could not for the life of her think how she could know him.
Grabbing Florencia’s hand, she pulled her towards her family, shouting out for Diana to stop, but already the strangers were on her, the first one leaning down and calmly picking up her daughter. Florencia screamed even as Eleanor did not allow her fingers to break contact.
‘I would advise you to let the girl go, madame. Any histrionics will make it difficult for both of you.’
In French!
The carousel of her mind spun backwards and stopped. This was the man who had burnt her thigh at the Château Giraudon with the red-hot tip of his smouldering cheroot. Shaking his words away, she reached for Florencia, fear making her movements heavy and slow.
‘Let go of her, right now.’ She could barely recognise the sound of her own voice.
But he did not listen, turning his back and taking the path away from the others. Hurrying to follow, she saw Diana behind them, shouting and gesturing. Too far away. Another man she had not seen suddenly reached out, his arm about her waist, lifting her off her feet as he jammed a heavy sack over her head. A sick plunge of nausea made her stomach lurch and she stumbled, the movement taking all breath from her body and making her see points of dancing black.
‘Florencia.’ The word hurt to say, but she tried again. A short curse in French stopped her as a hard object connected with her head. Then there was only darkness.
Cristo crouched against one of the piles under the warehouse, quiet against the river water. The sun slanted against the glass of a dirty window above him, smears of age and grease and dust. The only sunbeam for miles, he thought, his eyes scanning the alleyway winding up around the corner, the dark press of buildings sending shadowed danger into everything.
He was here because Etienne Beraud was in London. The Foreign Office had told him when Cristo had contacted them about the blackmail notes Eleanor had received, but he had disappeared, a known French spy who could only be up to no good.
Today, however, Cristo had intercepted a note with the name of his old rival upon it and written in a code that had been easily broken, a note that told of a safe house they were using by the docks.
Swearing softly, he rubbed at his left eye, aching from a punch he had failed to escape the evening before last when the piece of information had fallen into his hands.
Paris seemed to reach out and consume him again, the subterfuge of ten lonely years lying heavily across the last weeks in England when his body had begun to uncoil into something approaching a normal life. With a hat pulled down over his eyes he was the man he had once been, the knife strapped to his ankle sharp and honed and another one hidden beneath the folds of his shirt equally as keen. He made his breathing slower by sheer dint of will, a trick he had learned from endless nights of marking time.
Finally, just as the sun had gone and the moon had taken its place, there was movement and the sound of footsteps on the wooden decking.
Hoisting himself up, Cristo stayed under the shelter of shadow, a silent shape stalking his quarry without sound. When he was close enough he pulled the knife from his belt, the silver tang of it heavy in his hand as he pressed it against the throat of the one he had caught.
‘Pas un mot, vous comprendez?’
Not a word, you understand?
As the man realized the danger, his fingers reached for his pocket. Cristo pressed his blade in harder and they instantly stilled.
‘De Caviglione.’
‘Dupont.’
Manners in the heart of death-dealing.
‘Where is Beraud?’
‘I do not know.’