Contracted As His Countess

There were fine tall houses, although so tight together it must surely be impossible to be ignorant of one’s neighbours’ business. In the centre was a railed, circular enclosure with some water inside that and a statue in the middle. There was no grass and it seemed very bleak. The throng of vehicles and pedestrians made it seem worse, somehow.

‘No gardens? I thought London squares had gardens.’

‘Not all of them, ma’am. But the house does, a fine big one at the back.’

The carriage came to a halt outside a house with a flight of steps up to a wide glossy black door that was opened so perfectly in time with their stopping that someone must have been watching out for them, Madelyn realised. Two footmen came down the steps, the carriage door was opened, she was handed out and bowed into the house by a rotund little man, all in black, with a striped waistcoat.

‘Partridge?’ That was the name of her new butler, according to Mr Lansing who had written to the best London agency to secure the staff. Given the cosy shape of this man his name seemed all too appropriate.

‘Miss Aylmer. Welcome home.’

Home? I suppose it must become that. This is the beginning of my new life.

She blinked at the amount of gilding in the hall, the highly polished furniture, the torchères at the foot of the staircase. ‘It seems very…shiny.’ She had ordered the changes, of course, researched them meticulously as she had been taught by her father, but she had not expected how very bright everything would look.

‘Yes, Miss Aylmer. Your steward—Mr Lansing, is it not?—he told me that you wished the house renovated to the highest standard. He has directed a firm of decorators and upholsterers according to your instructions, and of course items have been arriving from Gillow’s and Heal’s, but I fear only the main rooms on the ground floor have been completed so far. The drawing room is here, ma’am. Tea will be served immediately.’

‘Thank—’ Crocodiles? Madelyn stopped dead on the threshold. ‘Oh, yes, of course. The Egyptian fashion.’ They seemed to be life-sized and somehow she had not imagined that. The totality of the objects she had studied in catalogues and from drawings were overwhelming when she saw them all assembled. She gazed round at more gilt, couches with scaly crocodile legs, lamp holders in the shape of turbaned figures and an array of what appeared to be miniature pagodas on the mantelpiece.

‘I understand that your orders were for the house to be redecorated in the latest style, Miss Aylmer.’ Partridge stared around him as though seeing the room for the first time, his feathers decidedly ruffled by her reaction. ‘Mr Lansing assures me that everything ordered is in the current mode.’

‘Oh, yes. It is. This is what I decided upon,’ she agreed faintly. It was hideous, she hated it and the light flooding in from the large windows made it all worse. Madelyn reminded herself that immersion in the Middle Ages was not going to be a fit preparation for appreciating contemporary style. ‘This is following the Prince Regent’s taste, I understand.’ She knew a little of that. Her father—who would be turning in his grave if he had any idea of what she had perpetrated here—had ranted about it for what had seemed like weeks after attending a reception at Carlton House. That had been followed by a letter from a fellow medievalist who was in shock after an ill-advised visit to the Pavilion at Brighton.

‘A hideous cacophony of styles, no research, gimcrack fakery’ had been the mildest of her father’s opinions.

But if this was the mode then she would have to accustom herself to it and at least Jack could not fault her for allowing the house to be neglected, or for skimping on her research and on the quality of the objects ordered. Not that the house had been allowed to fall into any kind of disrepair. There had been a succession of highly respectable tenants, Mr Lansing had assured her, just as there were with all of the Dersington properties her father had acquired that were fit to be rented out.

All the tenancies were on short leases, but this house had been let furnished and would have seemed hopelessly outdated now, she was sure. There were still the other floors to be dealt with, of course, but perhaps Jack would tolerate that if the public rooms were acceptable.

The tea tray arrived, shortly followed by Harper to announce that hot water could be taken up the moment Miss Aylmer expressed a wish to bathe. The maid had been tight-lipped over the facilities at the castle, although Madelyn was not sure what the woman expected. Her mother had, after all, made one of her rare protests when her husband had wanted to use the medieval garderobes—draughty little turrets with an alcove equipped with a plank seat with a hole and a long drop to the moat below. Mama had insisted on an earth closet in the inner court, although baths had to be taken in large wooden vats that were lined with linen sheets before the water was poured in.

‘I will take a bath in half an hour,’ she told Harper. ‘First I will finish my tea and write a note to…’ How would Jack want to be addressed now? Was he using his title yet? ‘To Lady Fairfield to let her know I have arrived. Do you have her direction?’

‘A footman went as soon as you arrived, Miss Aylmer. Mr Ransome’s orders.’

That answered her question as far as the staff were concerned, although she had no idea when he would make a general announcement that he was accepting the title.

Madelyn pushed down the feeling of resentment at being managed and told herself it was a thoughtful gesture and showed her betrothed’s concern. She put down her cup, jumped at the sound of the door knocker and winced as the spindly table rocked on its faux bamboo legs.

‘What the hell?’ demanded a voice from the hall.

‘Sir.’ Partridge’s fluting tones carried clearly through the half-open door. ‘Miss Aylmer—’

‘Miss Aylmer had better be at home, because I want to talk to her. Now.’ Jack’s voice was unmistakable, even through the anger.

As the cab rattled along Piccadilly towards St James’s Street, Jack decided that he had reason to be pleased with himself. He had managed to secure the assistance of an excellent companion and social tutor for Madelyn and the staff for the London house had been appointed through Madelyn’s man of business, Lansing.

With the wedding he would begin to use the title and he saw no problem with that, other than the inevitable gossip. His claim had been ratified by both the House of Lords and the College of Heralds on the death of his brother and he could expect nothing but approval now that he was finally accepting it.

None of the arrangements had been problematic—the difficult thing was not demanding the keys and taking possession of the house in St James’s Square the moment he arrived back in London. It was not his yet, he had reminded himself more than once over the past weeks as the temptation built like a dull ache.

The family seat, Dersington Mote, was in Suffolk. It was ancient and should have been the place he yearned for, he supposed. But he’d had a miserable childhood there, one he was in no hurry to remember. As his grandfather became older and more confused the old man was happier in the London house, which was smaller, warmer, a little faded and old fashioned, but a home where he was less disorientated by the world. With his mother dead, his grandparents had taken their younger grandson to live with them, and Jack had loved the house. The Earl might be vague about who he was most of the time, but he was invariably kind and Jack’s grandmother was indulgent to a boy who would sit and listen for hours to her read out loud or tell stories.

Now it would be his again. He could almost feel the worn leather of the desktop in the study under his fingers, smell the familiar scent of lemon and beeswax polish, pipe smoke and his grandmother’s lavender soap.

Soon he would set foot in that room for the first time in more than six years. When his grandparents died his father made the house his London base and Jack had removed himself before he was thrown out. First he wanted to drop into Brooks’s where his post was directed when he was out of town. He had been accepted as a member years ago, before his father died and, despite the fact that most of his fellow members considered that he was letting them all down by refusing to use the title, he ignored the dark looks and mutterings for the sake of convenience. The wives of the members were concerned only that he, landless, did not flirt with their impressionable daughters who should be making good matches, or lure their sons into the kind of dissipation his brother and father had been infamous for. They generally ignored him, omitted him from their guest lists and pretended the aristocratic black sheep did not exist.

It was ironic, he had thought in the early days when the snubs and whispers had hurt. His father and brother had been frivolous, spendthrift, indolent wastrels, but they were accepted. Jack had neither the taste, nor the time and money, for indiscriminate wenching, reckless gambling or drinking himself into a stupor, but he was the one looked down on.

His fellow aristocrats might despise him, but they did not shun his talents for solving problems on their behalf. He had spent the past week in Lincolnshire, concluding the last commission he intended taking, and wondered if he would miss the work. Not the tedium, of which there was plenty, but the puzzle of solving a problem and the occasional excitement, even danger. This last case had involved the plausible gentleman who had insinuated his way into the life of a certain young viscount, much to the alarm of his trustees The man had put up a satisfactory fight when confronted by Jack and the officers of the law armed with a warrant for his arrest on forgery charges and it had been a pleasure to let off some of his tight-wound emotions.

Jack was absently rubbing his bruised knuckles as the carriage turned down St James’s Street and pulled up outside the club. Yes, some things he’d miss. Earls were supposed to be respectable these days, on the surface at least.

‘Mr Ransome.’ The hall porter opened the door for him. ‘There is post awaiting you in the office, sir. Would you like it now, sir, or when you leave?’

‘Now, thank you.’ Jack tipped the man, then carried the correspondence through to the library. With a twinge of amusement he recognised the need to clear away everything to give himself a fresh start.

An hour later a plump little butler flung the door open with a flourish as Jack made himself walk slowly up the steps. ‘Sir. Welcome. I am Partridge.’

Jack stepped inside, took a deep breath, looked around. ‘What the hell?’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.