Текст книги "Until You"

Автор книги: Judith McNaught

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

58

Although the Season had wound to a close, the exclusive gaming rooms at White's were not lacking for wealthy occupants willing to wager enormous sums of money on the turn of a card or spin of the wheel. The oldest and most elegant of the clubs on St. James's Street, White's was far noisier than The Strathmore, and brightly lit, but not without its own hallowed traditions. At the front, looking out upon the street, was a wide bow window in which Beau Brummell had once held court with his friends the Duke of Argyll, Lords Sefton, Alvanley, and Worcester, and, on occasion, the then Prince Regent.

More famous than its bow window, however, was White's Betting Book, into which distinguished members had, for many years, entered wagers on events ranging from the solemn to the sordid to the silly. Included among the entries were wagers on the outcome of a war, the likely date of the death of a relative with a fortune to bequeath, the predicted winners in contests for ladies' hands, and even the outcome of a forthcoming race between two prime pigs owned by two of the club's members.

At a table near the back of one of the card rooms, William Baskerville was playing whist with the Duke of Stanhope and Nicholas DuVille. In the spirit of good-fellowship, those three gentlemen had permitted two very young gentlemen from excellent families to join them. Both young men were Corinthians of the first stare, obsessed with sporting and eager to make a name for themselves in town by excelling at the manly vices of gaming and drinking. Talk at the table was slow and desultory; betting was fast and heavy. "Speaking of crack-whips," said one of the young gentlemen, who'd been speaking of little else, "I haven't seen Langford at Hyde Park all week."

William Baskerville provided the answer to that as he counted out his chips. "His nephew's birthday, I believe. Duchess of Claymore is giving a small party to celebrate the occasion. Lovely woman, the duchess," he added. "I tell Claymore that every time I see him." Glancing at Nicholas DuVille who was seated on his left, he said, "You were friendly with her grace in France, before she came home to England, I believe?"

Nicki nodded without looking up from his cards, then he automatically added a proviso to forestall any gossip. "I count myself fortunate to be on friendly terms with allthe Westmoreland family."

One of the youths who'd been drinking heavily heard that with some surprise and then demonstrated his lack of polish-as well as his inability to hold his drink-by verbalizing it: "You don't say! Gossip had it that you and Langford nearly came to fisticuffs at Almack's over some red-haired girl you both fancied."

Baskerville snorted at such a thought. "My dear young fellow, when you've more experience in town, you'll learn to separate rubbish from truth, and to do that, you need to be better acquainted with the individuals involved. Now, I heard the same story, but I also know DuVille and Langford, so Iknew the whole story was pure faradiddle. Knew it the moment I heard it."

"As did I!" the more sober of the young men announced.

"A lamentable bit of nonsense," Nicki confirmed, when everyone seemed to wait for his response, "that will soon be forgotten."

"Knew it was," said Miss Charity's brother, the distinguished Duke of Stanhope, as he shoved chips into the growing heap at the center of the table. "Doesn't surprise me in the least to discover you and Langford are the best of friends. Both of you are the most amiable of men."

"No doubt about it," the sober young man said to Nicki with a mischievous grin, "but if you and Langford wereever to come to blows, I'd want to be there!"

"Why is that?" the Duke of Stanhope inquired.

"Because I've seen Langford and DuVille box at Gentleman Jackson's. Not with each other, of course, but they're the best I've ever seen with their fists. A fight between them would have lured even meto Almack's."

"And me!" exclaimed his companion with a hiccup.

Baskerville was appalled by their youthful misconception of civilized manhood, and he felt obliged to point out their gross lack of understanding. "Langford and DuVille would never stoop to settling matters with their fists, my good fellow! That's the difference between you hotheaded young pups and gentlemen like DuVille and Langford and the rest of us. You ought to study the excellent manners of your elders, acquire some of their town polish, don't you know. Rather than admiring DuVille's skill with his fists, you'd be wise to imitate his excellent address and his way with a neckcloth."

"Thank you, Baskerville," idly murmured Nicki because Baskerville seemed to be waiting for some sort of affirmative response.

"Welcome, DuVille. I speak only the truth. As to Langford," Baskerville continued, waiting for his turn to bet, "you couldn't have a finer example of refinement and gentlemanly arts. Fisticuffs to settle a disagreement, indeed!" he scoffed. "Why, the very thought of it is offensive to any civilized man."

"Ludicrous to even discuss it," the Duke of Stanhope agreed, studying the faces of the other players before he decided whether to wager on his rather poor hand of cards.

"My apologies, sirs, if-" the sober one of the young pair began, but he broke off abruptly. "Thought you said Langford was rusticating," he said in a bewildered tone that implied there was evidence at hand that proved otherwise.

All five men glanced up and saw Stephen Westmoreland heading straight toward them wearing an expression that, as he came nearer, looked far more ominous than amiable. Without so much as a nod to acknowledge acquaintances calling out greetings to him, the Earl of Langford stalked purposefully around tables and chairs and gamblers, bearing down on the five men at Baskerville's table and then circling around their chairs.

Four of those men stiffened, eyeing him with the wary disbelief of innocent men who are suddenly and unaccountably confronted with a threat they neither understand nor deserve from a predator they had mistaken for tame.

Only Nicholas DuVille seemed unconcerned with the tangible danger emanating from Langford. In fact, to the population of White's, who were all turning to watch in incredulous fascination, Nicholas DuVille seemed to be positively invitinga confrontation by his deliberate and exaggerated nonchalance. As the earl stopped beside his chair, DuVille leaned back, shoved his hands deeply into his pockets, and with a thin cheroot clamped between his white teeth, he acknowledged the earl with a sardonic questioning look. "Care to join us, Langford?"

"Get up!" the Earl of Langford bit out.

The challenge was unmistakable and imminent.

It caused a minor commotion as several young bucks sprinted for White's Betting Book to enter their wagers on the outcome. It caused a lazy, white smile to work its way across DuVille's face as he slouched deeper into his chair, thoughtfully chewed the end of his cheroot, and appeared to contemplate the invitation with considerable relish. As if he wanted to be certain his hopes weren't unfounded, he quirked a brow in amused inquiry. "Here?" he asked, his smile widening.

"Get out of that chair," the earl snarled in a dangerously soft voice, "you son of a-"

"Definitely, here," DuVille interrupted, his smile hardening as he shoved up from his lounging position and jerked his head in the direction of one of the back rooms.

News of the impending fight reached White's manager within moments, and he rushed out from the kitchen. "Now, now, gentlemen! Gentlemen!" the manager entreated as he shoved through the crowd exiting in polite haste from the back room. "Never in the history of White's has there ever-"

The door slammed in his face.

"Think of your attire, gentlemen! Think of the furniture!" he shouted, opening the door just in time to hear the savage sound of a fist connecting with bone and to see DuVille's head snap back.

Yanking the door closed, the manager spun around, his faced drained of color, hands still clutching the door handle behind his back. A hundred male faces eyed him expectantly, all of them interested in the same information. "Well?" said one of them.

The manager's face contorted with pain as he contemplated the possible damage to the back room's expensive green baize faro tables, but he managed to gasp out a quavering reply. "At this time…I would suggest… three-to-two odds."

"In whose favor, my good man?" demanded an impatient, elegantly dressed gentleman who was standing in the long line, waiting to write his wager in the Betting Book.

The manager hesitated, cast his eyes heavenward as if praying for courage, then he twisted about and opened the door a crack, peeking inside at the same moment a body collided with a wall with a thunderous crash. "In favor of Langford!" he called over his shoulder, but as he started to pull the door closed, another explosion like the last one rattled the rafters, and he took another look. "No-DuVille! No, Langford. No-!" He jerked the door closed barely in time to avoid having it snap off his head as a pair of heavy shoulders slammed into it.

Long after the sounds of human combat finally ended, the manager remained with his spine riveted against the door, until it suddenly gave way behind him, sending him careening backward into the empty room as the Earl of Langford and Nicholas DuVille walked out. Alone in the room and dazed with relief, the manager slowly turned and surveyed a room that, at first glance, looked miraculously undisturbed. He was uttering a fervent prayer of gratitude when his eyes beheld a polished end table resting upon three sound legs and a fourth that was badly splintered, and he clutched at his heart as if it, too, were splintering. On shaking limbs he walked over to the faro table and removed a tankard that oughtn't to have been on it, only to discover that the tankard concealed a dreadful gouge in the faro table's green baize top. Narrowing his eyes, he inspected the room more closely… In the corner of the room, four chairs were neatly arranged around a circular card table, but now he noticed that each chair possessed only three legs.

An ornate gilt clock which normally graced the center of an inlaid serving board was now on the right end of it. With shaking hands, the manager reached out to slide the clock back to its rightful place, then he cried out in horror as the clock's face fell forward, its hands swinging limply from side to side.

Shaking with outrage and anguish, the manager reached out to brace himself and grabbed the back of the nearest chair.

It came off in his hand.

On the other side of the wall, in the main room of White's, an outburst of unnaturally boisterous conversation erupted when DuVille and Langford strolled out-conversation of the sort used by adult males as a diversionary tactic intended to convey the impression that one's attention was everywhere except where it actually was.

Either indifferent to, or unaware of, the unnatural atmosphere and watchful eyes that followed them, the two former combatants parted company at the center of the room, Langford to search for a servant with a tray of drinks, and DuVille to return to his empty place at the card table. "Was it my turn to deal?" he asked, settling into his chair and reaching for the deck.

The two young men answered in unison that it was, the Duke of Stanhope courteously replied that he wasn't entirely certain, but Baskerville was in high dudgeon over having been made to look a fool before the young gentlemen, and he brought up the subject on everyone's mind. "You may as well tell these two what happened in there, since they won't be able to concentrate or even sleep without knowing the outcome," he said testily. "Disgraceful behavior, I don't scruple to tell you, DuVille. On both your parts!"

"There is nothing to tell," Nicki said blandly, picking up the abandoned deck of cards from the center of the table and shuffling it expertly. "We discussed a wedding."

Baskerville looked hopeful but unconvinced. The two younger men looked serenely amused, but only the drunken one of them had the temerity and bad manners to scoff at the offered explanation.

"A wedding?" he hooted, casting a meaningful eye upon Nicki's torn collar. "What could two men discuss about a wedding?"

"Who the groom is going to be," Nicki replied with casual nonchalance.

"And did you decide, sir?" the courteous one asked, sending his companion a warning glance and trying desperately to pretend he believed the whole tale.

"Yes," Nicki drawled, leaning forward to toss his chips into the center of the table. "I am going to be the best man."

His careless friend took another long draught of wine, and gave a laugh. "A wedding!" he snorted.

Nicholas DuVille slowly lifted his head and gave him a long, speculative look. "Would you prefer to make it a funeral?"

Fearing that the worst might yet be to come, Baskerville leapt into the breach. "What else did you and Langford discuss? You were gone a good while."

"We discussed little old ladies with faulty memories," Nicki replied ironically. "And we marvelled at the wisdom of a God who, for some incomprehensible reason, occasionally allows their tongues to go on working long after their brains have ceased to function at all."

The Duke of Stanhope looked up sharply. "I hope you are not referring to anyone I know."

"Do you know anyone called by the unlikely name of 'Charity,' instead of 'Birdwit'?"

The Duke choked back a horrified laugh at that deliberate, and unmistakable, description of his oldest sister. "I may." He was spared further discussion of that embarrassing topic by the arrival of another gambler, who nodded a casual but friendly greeting at Baskerville and himself as he pulled out the chair beside DuVille and settled into it.

Stretching his long legs out beneath the table, the new arrival gazed pointedly at the two young gentlemen, who were not known to him, clearly awaiting the formality of an introduction before acknowledging them. DuVille was the only one who seemed either cognizant of the need for introductions or able to respond to it. "These two fellows with the slack jaws and deep pockets are Lords Banbraten and Isley," he said to the newcomer. To the youths, he said, "I believe the Earl of Langford is already familiar to you?" When they nodded in unison, Nicki finished dealing out the cards and said, "Good. Since that's over, the earl and I will now endeavor to divest you of the rest of your fathers' money."

He picked up the cards he'd dealt for himself and winced at the pain in his rib.

"Bad hand, eh?" chuckled the Duke of Stanhope, mistaking the reason for Nicki's grimace.

In the erroneous belief the question had been directed to him, Stephen glanced at his swollen knuckles and flexed his hand. "Not too bad." He turned as a servant approached the table with two glasses of excellent brandy, and he took them both, keeping one for himself and passing the other to DuVille. "With my compliments," he said blandly, pausing for an inquiring glance at one of the youths, who'd overturned his wine as he reached for it.

"Can't hold his drink," Nicki explained, following the direction of Stephen's gaze.

Stephen crossed his feet at the ankles and glanced in disapproval at the red-faced, glassy-eyed youth. "You would think," he said, "that someone would have taught them how to conduct themselves before turning them loose on the rest of society."

"My thoughts exactly," Nicki agreed.

59

The Skeffingtons had given up their rented house in town and repaired to the village of Blintonfield. As a result, it took Nicki three more hours than he'd anticipated to reach Sheridan and put into effect the romantic plan that Langford felt was the best-and only-way to bring her to him as well as convince her his intentions were honorable.

The fact that Nicki was now Stephen Westmoreland's emissary instead of his adversary did not strike Nicki as odd in the least. For one thing, he was merely doing his best to repair a relationship he had inadvertently helped to damage. For another, he was thoroughly enjoying his role, which was to persuade Sheridan to resign her position with the Skeffingtons and accompany him at once to an interview for a "new position" at an estate several hours away.

To that end, he had brought with him two impeccably qualified governesses to take her place.

Since Lady Skeffington had taken her daughter to Devon, where she had heard the future Duke of Norringham spent his bachelor days during July, Nicki had only to convince Sir John to accept two governesses in place of one-an easy feat since Stephen Westmoreland would be secretly paying more than half their wages for the first year.

Having accomplished all that, Nicki was now attempting to persuade Sheridan of the logic-and the need-to pack her clothes at once and accompany him to meet an unknown nobleman who had a "better position" to offer her. In keeping with that end, he was providing her with as much of the truth as he could tell her and improvising when the occasion-or his sense of humor-required it.

"Viscount Hargrove is a bit temperamental, even disagreeable, at times," he told her, "but he dotes on his nephew, who is also his heir at the moment, and wants only the best for him."

"I see," Sheridan said, wondering just how temperamental and disagreeable the viscount was.

"The wages are excellent-to compensate for the viscount's personal shortcomings."

"How excellent?"

The figure he named made Sherry's lips part in a silent O of stunned delight.

"There are also other benefits that go with the position."

"What sort of benefits?"

"A large suite of your own, a maid to attend you, a horse of your own…"

Her eyes were widening with each word. "Is there more?" she asked when he let the sentence hang. "How could there be?"

"As a matter of fact, there is more. One of the most appealing benefits of this position is what I would call… tenure."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that if you accept the position, it will be yours-along with all its benefits-for as long as you live."

"I wasn't planning to stay in England above a few months."

"A small complication, but perhaps you can persuade the viscount to give it to you anyway."

Sheridan hesitated, trying to get a clearer picture of the man. "Is he an elderly gentleman?"

"Comparatively speaking," Nicki confirmed, thinking with amusement that Langford was a year older than himself.

"Has he had other governesses in the past?"

Nicki choked back several highly amusing, but inappropriate, answers as to the likelihood of that and gave her the answer she'd expect, "Yes."

"Why did they leave him?"

Another set of diverting speculations occurred to him, and he uttered one of them. "Perhaps because they expected tenure and he didn't offer it?" he suggested smoothly, then to prevent more questions, he said, "As I said a moment ago, this is a matter of some urgency to the viscount. If you are interested in the position, then pack your things, and we will be on our way. I promised to bring you to him at two o'clock today, and we are already going to be three hours late."

Unable to trust in the first good fortune that had befallen her since coming to England, Sheridan hesitated and then stood up. "I don't understand why he's interested in employing someone like me when he could surely have his choice of better-qualified English governesses."

"He's set on having an American," Nicki said with amused certainty.

"Very well, I'll meet with him, and if we are at all compatible, I'll remain with him."

"That is what he is hoping for," Nicki said. As she turned to go upstairs and pack, he added, "I have brought you a better gown to wear, one that does not look so-" He looked for some fault with her perfectly neat but drab dark gown. "-so somber," he finished. "Viscount Hargrove dislikes somber things around him."

60

"Is something wrong, cherie?" he asked as the sun began its lazy descent.

Pulling her gaze from the verdant countryside passing by the coach's window, Sherry shook her head. "I am only-anticipating the change-a new position, wonderful wages, a large room of my own, and horses to ride. It seems almost too good to be true."

"Then why do you look so inexpressibly solemn?"

"I don't feel right about leaving the Skeffingtons so suddenly," Sherry admitted.

"They have two governesses now, instead of one, Skeffington was so excited, he'd have helped you pack your valise."

"If you'd met their daughter, you'd understand why. I left her a note, but I hated not to say good-bye to her. In fact, I hated to leave her to them at all. In any case," Sherry added, shaking off her unease and smiling, "I am exceedingly grateful to you for everything you've done."

"I hope you will still feel as you do in a little while," Nicki replied with a touch of irony. He took out his watch and frowned at the time. "We are very late. He may have decided we aren't coming, after all."

"Why would he think that?"

He took a moment longer to answer than should have been necessary, but Sherry dismissed that as soon as he said, "I could not guarantee the viscount that I could lure you away from your present position."

She burst out laughing "Who in their right mind would pass up such an offer as his?" Another possibility occurred to her, and she sobered abruptly. "You aren't trying to tell me that he might have given the position to someone else by the time we arrive?"

For some reason, that question seemed to amuse him as he shifted position, turning so that his back was propped against the side window and one long leg was draped over the seat beside him. He caught her worried look and said with complete assurance, "I feel certain the position will still be yours. If you want it."

"It's such a beautiful day-" Sherry began half an hour later. She broke off and grabbed for leverage as the horses slowed suddenly and the coach began to sway hard on its frame. Then, with a loud bump, it turned sharply to the left, off the main road. "We must be getting near his home," she said, straightening the wide, tight cuffs and full sleeves of the lovely pale blue embroidered gown Nicki had brought her, then she reached up to make certain her hair was securely anchored in its neat coil.

Nicki leaned forward and looked out at the ancient stone buildings at the side of the overgrown, narrow lane, then he smiled with satisfaction. "The viscount's country seat is still some distance from here; however, he was going to be here at this hour, and he felt this was the most suitable place for you both to discuss the position he wishes to offer."

Curious, Sheridan leaned sideways and looked out the window, her delicate brows drawing together in confused surprise. "Is this a church?"

"As I understand, this is a chapel that was once part of a Scottish priory during the sixteenth century. It was later dismantled with permission and brought here. It has great significance in the viscount's ancestral history."

"What sort of significance could a chapel have in a family's history?" Sherry inquired, baffled.

"I believe the viscount's earliest known ancestor forced a friar to marry him to his unwilling bride within the chapel's walls." When she shivered, Nicki added dryly, "Now that I think about it, it seems to be something of a family custom."

"It sounds Gothic and-and not amusing or appealing in the least! I see two other coaches around the other side, but no one is in them. What sort of service could he be attending at this hour and in such an out-of-the-way place as this?"

"A private one. Very private," Nicki said, then he changed the subject. "Let me see how you look."

She faced him, and he frowned. "Your hair seems to be sliding free of your tidy coil." Puzzled because her hair had felt secure, Sherry reached up, but he was too quick.

"Here, let me. You have no looking glass."

Before she could protest or warn him, he'd pulled on the long pins instead of pushing them in and twisting, and the whole mass came tumbling down around her shoulders in hopeless disarray. "Oh, no!" she cried.

"Do you have a brush?"

"Yes, of course, but, oh, I wish you hadn't-"

"Do not fret. You will feel better able to voice your objections if you know you look more-festive," he lied lamely.

"What possible objections could I have to his offer?"

Nicki waited for the coachman to let down the steps, then he climbed out and offered her his hand, before he replied vaguely, "Oh, I think you may have an objection or two. At first."

"Is there something you haven't told me?" Sherry said, pulling back a little, then stepping aside in surprise as the coachman abruptly moved the horses forward. The breeze caught her skirt, blowing it gently and teasing her hair as they walked side by side. From the corner of her eye, Sherry searched the side yard of the picturesque little chapel for some sign of the sort of man who would have to pay a fortune to keep a governess.

She thought she saw something move off to the left, and her hand went to her heart at the same time Nicki looked sharply at her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I thought I saw someone."

"It was probably him. He said he would be waiting for you over there."

"Over there? What is he doing out here?"

"Meditating, I imagine," Nicky said succinctly, "on his sins. Now, run along and listen to what he has to say. And, cherie?"

She turned to step across the rutted lane and stopped. "Yes?" she said over her shoulder.

"If you truly do not wish to accept the position he offers, you will leave here with me. Do not feel obliged to remain if you wish to leave. You will receive other offers, though not perhaps as-diverting in some ways-as this one would turn out to be. Remember that," he said firmly. "If you truly wish to decline, you may leave here with me under my protection."

Sherry nodded and turned back, picking her way across the road, avoiding getting her slippers dusty, then she walked up to the little white fence and pushed it open, blinking to adjust to the dimmer light of the grove. Ahead of her, a man was in the shadow of a tree, his arms crossed over his chest, feet braced slightly apart, gloves clutched in one hand, idly tapping his hip. Only dimly aware there was something familiar about that stance, she continued forward, her heart beginning to hammer in nervous anticipation and a little dread of the coming interview.

She took three steps forward. So did he. Sherry stopped cold at the sound of his solemn voice. "I was afraid you weren't coming."

For a split second, her feet felt rooted in the ground-then she whirled and ran, rage and shock propelling her with unusual speed, but she still couldn't outdistance him. Stephen caught her just as she neared the gate and pulled her back around, his hands clamped on her arms. "Let go of me!" Sherry warned, her chest heaving with each tortured breath.

Quietly, he asked, "Will you stand here and listen to what I have to say?"

She nodded, he released her, and she swung at him, but this time he had expected it and recaptured both her arms. With a pained look in his eyes, he said, "Don't make me restrain you."

"I'm not making you do anything, you loathsome-despicable-lech!" she raged, trying ineffectually to twist free. "And to think Nicki DuVille was a part of this! He brought me here-he convinced me to resign my position, he made me believe you had a position to offer me-"

"I do have a position to offer you."

"I'm not interested in any more of your offers!" she raged, giving up her futile physical struggle and facing him in a fury of helplessness. "I'm still hurting from the last one!"

He winced at the mention of his last offer, but he went on talking almost as if he hadn't heard her. "The new position comes with a house-several of them."

"I've heard all this before!"

"No you haven't!" he said. "It comes with servants to do your every bidding, all the money you can spend, jewels, furs. And it comes with me."

" I don't want you!" she cried. "You've already used me like a-a common doxy, now stay away from me! God," she said, her voice breaking, "I'm so ashamed-it was so trite-the governess who falls in love with the lord of the manor, only in the novels he doesn't do the things to her you did to me in bed. It was so ugly-"

"Don't say that!" he cut in, his voice raw. "Please don't say that. It wasn't ugly. It was-"

"Sordid!" she cried.

"The new position comes with me," he continued, his face white with strain. "It comes with my name and my hand and all I possess."

"I don't want-"

"Yes you do," he said, giving her a shake, just as his full meaning sunk in. Sheridan felt a brief spurt of joy before she realized he was merely having another attack of conscience and duty, this time over seducing her, evidently.

"Damn you!" she choked. "I am not some foundling you're obliged to propose to every time you have an attack of guilt. The first time you did it, I wasn't even the right woman to feel guilty about."

"Guilty," he repeated with a harsh, embittered laugh. "The only guilt I ever felt where you were concerned was for wanting you for myself from the moment you regained consciousness. For God's sake, look at me and you'll see I'm telling the truth." He put his hand under her chin, and she neither resisted nor cooperated, but focused her gaze over his shoulder instead. "I stole the life of a young man, and then I saw his fiancee and I wanted to steal her too. Can you understand just a little of how that made me feel about myself? I killed him and then I lustedafter the fiancee he couldn't have because he was dead. I wanted to marry you, Sheridan, right from the beginning."

"No you didn't! Not until afteryou were informed Mr. Lancaster had died, leaving his poor, helpless daughter alone in the world except for you!"

"If I hadn't wanted an excuse to marry his 'poor, helpless daughter' I'd have done anything I could for her, but marriage was not one of them. God forgive me, but an hour after I got that letter, I was drinking champagne with my brother to toast our wedding. If I hadn't wanted to marry you, I'd have been drinking hemlock."