The Outrageous Belle Marchmain

And the door still wouldn’t shut. She tried again; this time the handle came off in her hand. Somehow she rammed it back. Matt had jumped down now from the driver’s seat to hold the horses and was simply gaping at the four-storeyed, cream-stuccoed dwellings that surrounded them.

Belle resisted the same impulse to let her own jaw drop. She’d known, of course, that Davenant dwelt in the most exclusive part of London. But the thought of confronting him in one of these magnificent mansions made her heart quail with in her.

It was four days since Edward had called at her shop with his dire news. She’d written twice to Davenant requesting an appointment and heard precisely nothing, so she’d decided there was no alternative but to confront him in his lair. Sternly quelling her apprehension, she’d dressed appropriately and left her shop in Gabrielle’s capable hands.

Of course, appropriate wouldn’t be the word most people would use for her twill silk gown of turquoise and pink or her snug-fitting pink jacket. Appropriate didn’t perhaps apply to her large straw hat adorned with turquoise satin ribbons. Oh, dear. When she’d put on the outfit she’d felt full of confidence. But now she was feeling rather sick.

Davenant’s grandfather made the family fortunes from tin mining, she remembered Edward saying scornfully. But as she gazed down Clarges Street, she felt her breath catch in her throat because the miner’s grandson had done rather well for himself.

Still standing by the rickety coach, she smoothed the sleeves of her jacket, adjusted her straw bonnet and emphasised to Matt a little too brightly, ‘This will most definitely do, Matt. Return the vehicle, will you? I shan’t be wanting you again.’

Big Matt set his face obstinately. ‘Don’t seem right, Mrs Marchmain, leaving you here alone, callin’ on an unknown gentleman.’

Belle very much wanted to say crisply to Matt and to anyone else within hearing, ‘Believe me, Adam Davenant is no gentleman!’ But that would simply make poor Matt even more anxious; so instead she retorted, ‘Matt, I’m a twenty-seven-year-old widow and, as you see, I’m at no risk whatsoever in a neighbourhood like this. There is absolutely no need for you to stay. Besides,’ she added in a moment of inspiration, ‘Gabby will be expecting you. You promised her you’d fix that loose counter in the workshop today, remember?’

As she spoke she was horribly conscious that halfway down Clarges Street a couple of liveried footmen stood on the steps of the biggest house of them all, gossiping in the sun. She’d been aware for some time that the footmen were staring in her direction and felt newly embarrassed by the scruffy equipage and the presence of loyal Matt in his ancient greatcoat and battered hat.

‘Won’t you want escortin’ home afterwards, ma’am?’ frowned Matt.

‘I shall walk,’ Belle announced. ‘I shall enjoy the fresh air.’

‘But …’

Just then the door handle fell off again; she kicked it under the carriage. ‘Matt!’ she hissed. ‘Please—just go!’

Matt, his burly visage expressive, heaved himself back on to the driving seat. Belle found herself urging his departure under her breath rather frantically. Then, lifting her head high, she set off down Clarges Street. The footmen watched her as she drew nearer.

She knew it. She knew, before she reached them.

They were outside Adam Davenant’s house. They were his footmen. Oh, drat and botheration. And they had seen everything; the ancient carriage, Matt, herself kicking the blasted door handle out of sight …

They had sprung to attention, stiff-faced, their arms straight at their sides, but Belle had seen a hint of malicious humour in their eyes.

‘Is this Mr Davenant’s house?’ she asked crisply.

‘This is Mr Davenant’s residence—ma’am.’

‘Then I wish to speak to him, if you please. And before you ask, I have not an appointment, though I have written to him twice informing him that—that it is in his interests to see me.’

The footman’s lips pursed. ‘Mr Davenant happens to have company.’

‘Then I will wait.’

The impudent scoundrel almost sniffed. ‘Very well, madam. I will take you to await Mr Davenant’s convenience.’

‘But …’ Belle bit her lip. She didn’t exactly have a choice, did she? He held the door open; she sailed inside.

Oh, my. This place was incredible. Her entire shop would fit inside this lofty hallway, with its huge chandeliers and sweeping staircase. Money from mining and quarrying, she reminded herself steadily. Money from other men’s back-breaking toil.

The footman—who she reckoned might stop breathing soon if he lifted his nose any higher in disdain—ushered her along the vast hallway to a room that led off it, pointed her inside, then disappeared, closing the door rather firmly on her as he left.

She was too agitated to notice much, beyond the fact that she could hear the sounds of loud male talk and laughter from upstairs. Would the sneering footman trouble to deliver her message? Would the hateful Mr Davenant even bother to leave his rowdy companions and grant her a few minutes’ audience? She paced to and fro. This had to be one of her stupidest ideas ever.

Suddenly she heard a man’s bellow of rage from out in the hallway, then the pattering of feet and the sounds of a girl sobbing. Just as she turned towards the door it burst open and a young maidservant tottered in, clearly in a state of some distress. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

The maid saw Belle. ‘Oh! I beg pardon, miss, I’m sure!’ Knuckling the tears from her eyes, the girl was already turning to hurry away, but Belle grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘What is it, my dear?’

The girl, in her white cap and apron, was shaking. ‘Nothin’. It’s nothin’, miss …’ She hurried out again into the hall, Belle following. But the girl stopped with a low cry when she saw, from the other direction, an extravagantly dressed, fair-haired man prowling towards her with an unpleasant smile on his face. ‘Now, what’s all this, missy?’ he said to the cowering maid. ‘I thought we were having a pleasant conversation. Not trying to run from me, are you?’

This time it was Belle who let out a gasp of shock. She knew this smooth-tongued aristocrat whom some would call handsome. Her stomach clenched. Dear God, if this man was a friend of Davenant’s, things were even worse than she’d thought.

Belle said to the young maid quickly, ‘I will see to this. Go, now.’ The maid scurried off, still sobbing. The man lurched closer—clearly he had been drinking, she could smell it. He was staring down at her. ‘By God. Mrs Marchmain. Well, isn’t this a happy coincidence?’

Belle held her chin high. Loathsome, loathsome man. ‘Not for me, Lord Jarvis, I assure you.’

At first Jarvis scowled. ‘I see your pride is still as damned lofty as ever …’ Then he began to laugh—a bitter, ugly sound. His pale blue eyes were assessing her greedily. ‘Hold a minute. Now, let me think. Here you are, in Davenant’s house—can it be that my money wasn’t enough to tempt you, but Davenant’s is?’

He laid his hand on her shoulder and let it slide to her breast. Belle’s stomach heaved as she knocked it away.

‘You disgust me, my lord,’ she breathed. ‘You did when we last met and not a thing has changed—’

‘What the deuce is going on?’

The man’s voice came from the wide staircase above them. Jarvis jumped away from Belle and looked up angrily at the speaker. ‘Davenant. Damn it, I’d no idea you were there …’

Belle looked up, too. And with this second shock she felt so dizzy that her ribs ached with the need for air. No. Impossible. Please …

The newcomer scarcely glanced at her. It was on Jarvis that his iron gaze rested as he came steadily down the stairs; he was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the sober perfection of black tailcoat and pristine white neckcloth.

He said to Jarvis, ‘I thought you were on your way out a while ago.’

‘And so I was,’ declared Jarvis furiously. ‘Until I was delayed, by an encounter with this woman here.’

‘Not true,’ breathed Belle.

‘Oh, it is true. She insulted me, Davenant, damn it!’

Belle thought she’d been prepared for almost anything. But not for the fact that Adam Davenant, her brother’s enemy, was the man on Sawle Down into whose ears she’d poured insult after insult.

Desperate hope rose in her breast. He might not remember me. He might not recognise me …

Lord Jarvis did though, all too well; Jarvis was still glaring at her, and to him she said as steadily as she could, ‘You claim I insulted you, Lord Jarvis. All I did was tell you to stop pursuing that serving girl because you were frightening her out of her wits.’ Belle met his glare squarely, though she truly wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

‘I’ll escort you to the door, Jarvis,’ she heard Davenant saying.

The two men were moving away from her along the hall; she saw Jarvis pausing by the open doorway, still muttering angrily to Davenant, jabbing his finger in her direction. Dear God, she could just imagine what foul lies he’d be concocting.

‘Good day to you, Jarvis,’ Davenant was saying.

Jarvis gave a swift nod. ‘Good day to you, Davenant. We’ll speak soon, I’ve no doubt.’ The footman closed the door after him and Adam Davenant was coming back towards her. The footman hadn’t bothered to ask her name; there was a chance, just a chance she might still somehow be able to wriggle out of this …

‘Well,’ Mr Davenant said softly. ‘So we meet again, Mrs Marchmain.’

Her last hope died.

Chapter Four

Adam Davenant was astounded and annoyed. As if Jarvis wasn’t enough—the damned man caused trouble wherever he went—she was here.

A footman had warned Adam that a rather odd lady had come to call and within moments of first seeing her in the hall it had all fallen into place. She was the woman who’d emerged from that dreadful old carriage.

And who’d stirred memories of that sunlit March afternoon in Somerset.

Stirred more than memories, in fact. She was clad outrageously in a clinging outfit of turquoise and pink with a loud bonnet trailing ribbons everywhere. Her eyes were emerald, her raven-black curls set off the perfect creaminess of her skin, her lips were full and rosy.

And he steadily reminded himself that just a few weeks ago she’d heaped such insults on the name of Adam Davenant that they were etched like acid on his memory. Even more ominously—she knew Jarvis.

‘You’re very quiet, Mrs Marchmain,’ he drawled. ‘Surely you aren’t trying to conjure up more insults to hurl at me? Or have you exhausted yourself being rude to Jarvis?’

Belle swallowed on the dryness in her throat and lifted her chin. ‘He was treating that young serving maid abominably. You will perhaps remark, Mr Davenant, that I had no right to interfere, but I could not stand by!’

He was watching her with something unreadable in his eyes. ‘You do tend to say what you think, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You have a neat way with put-downs. You told me, for instance, that I wasn’t born to wealth and it showed.’

Oh, Lord, thought Belle rather faintly. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven a single word. Something shook inside her, seeing him like this, no longer wearing the garb of a rough quarry worker, but dressed as the rich, powerful man he was, here in his mansion. And how well he fitted the part. To say he was handsome wasn’t enough. His strong features and formidable stature implied power and dominance. Edward had described him as a boor. No one else in their right mind would.

But she was damned if she would grovel. ‘How was I supposed to know who you were? How could I have guessed, when you were—you were—’

‘Dressed like a labourer?’ he cut in. ‘That was because I’d been inspecting my quarry. I judge people by their words and actions, Mrs Marchmain, not their attire; a lesson you might try learning. Now it’s my turn for questions, the most obvious being—why exactly are you here?’ His voice licked somehow at her senses, soft and dangerous. Dear God, her errand was doomed before it had even begun.

But she had to try. ‘I have business with you, Mr Davenant, which concerns my brother. I wrote to you, but you did not deign to reply!’

‘I leave begging letters to my secretary, Lowell.’

Begging letters. ‘How dare—?’

‘Mrs Marchmain,’ he interrupted, ‘I’m an extremely busy man. And your brother—Hathersleigh—has taken up too much of my time already.’

Heat surged through her veins. ‘You could at least give this matter your attention!’

‘Why? Because you’re members of the once-illustrious Hathersleigh family?’

She bit her lip. ‘We are not without influence still.’

He sighed heavily. ‘Please don’t remind me that you have a great-uncle who is a duke, as your brother once did.’ She visibly flinched. ‘I really don’t care,’ he went on, ‘if you can trace your ancestry all the way back to William the Conqueror. Why should I waste my time on you, when your family is reduced to sheep-stealing?’

Oh, Lord.

She remembered how at Sawle Down the dust had clung to this man’s breeches and boots and perspiration had gleamed on his hard cheekbones. Today, he could have claimed to be a duke himself and no one would have doubted it. His clothes were exceedingly plain, yes, but that coat of his had clearly been cut by a master to fit those broad shoulders so perfectly. Sleek buckskins clung to his powerfully muscular thighs and his polished top boots were exquisite. His thick dark hair was cropped short, his pristine neckcloth was quite perfect.

He made no effort to clamour for attention. He didn’t need to. And as his slate-grey eyes rested on hers, she felt a sharp jolt of awareness implode quietly yet devastatingly inside her. Awareness of what, precisely? Of his sheer maleness, that was what. It was impossible to look at him without thinking: here was a man of power, with a man’s desires, and all that implied.

And he was her family’s enemy. Her enemy.

She said, her head lifted high, but her pulse rate in tumult, ‘I hope you will accept, Mr Davenant, that I spoke in the heat of the moment that afternoon on Sawle Down.’

‘It gave you a wonderful opportunity to reveal your true thoughts, though, didn’t it?’ he observed caustically. ‘So please don’t lower yourself in my estimation by trying to take back what you said.’

The smouldering look she gave him said, Don’t worry. I won’t.

Inside Adam was rigid with tension. The witch. The insolent little green-eyed witch.

What Jarvis had said to him just before he left was still ringing in his ears.

I don’t know why that woman’s visiting you, Davenant, but you’d be a fool to believe a word she says. She’s a greedy little widow angling for money—some time ago I made the mistake of not offering her enough.

She’d come here to plead with Adam for mercy for her brother, no doubt. And she must realise her mission was already doomed—because Adam knew exactly what she thought of him.

‘I’m in the middle of a meeting,’ he told her curtly. ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’ He was leading the way along a corridor. ‘You can wait here, in my library.’ One big hand pushed open a panelled door.

She swung round on him, head held high. ‘You expect me to wait? Again?’

‘You are uninvited,’ he pointed out. ‘Be glad that I see you at all, Mrs Marchmain.’ He turned to go, closing the library door on her. She could cool down in there. And so, damn it, could he.

Adam was a highly physical man and his lifestyle usually accommodated a mistress, kept in enviable style in return for companionship in bed and out of it. He’d recently ended just such an arrangement with an elegant widow, Lady Farnsworth—mainly because she was starting to hint a little too often about marriage.

Marriage was one big mistake as far as Adam was concerned. But it was also an error on his part, he now decided grimly, to be without a mistress. It made him think hungry thoughts about a raven-haired termagant dressed in turquoise and pink who quite simply detested him.

Belle just stood there when he’d gone, sunk before she’d even begun. I really don’t care if you can trace your ancestry all the way back to William the Conqueror, he’d said. Why should I waste my time on you, when your family is reduced to sheep-stealing?

She cringed anew. The ducal connection came through their mother, who’d died shortly after giving birth to Edward when Belle was only two. It was Belle’s father who used to point out to his children that their mother’s uncle was the Duke of Sutherland, but as far as Belle knew the Duke wasn’t even aware of their existence. Either that or he’d heard of their dwindling fortunes and kept well away.

Belle’s father had died when Belle was just thirteen, and that was when the estate had to be put in the care of stern Uncle Philip and his wife. Edward, at twenty-one, had come into his inheritance with considerable joy, hence the youthful gambling spree. But Belle had already grasped the reality—that her family was in actuality impoverished.

Since Belle’s widowhood her dressmaking business had given her independence; but it did not give her the deference or protection she might once have expected in society. She’d met Lord Jarvis two years ago, when he’d expressed an interest in investing in her shop and invited her to his big London house for a business meeting with his lawyer.

The lawyer never arrived. Lord Jarvis had locked the door to his study and had proceeded to make her an offer which had left her breathless and shaking.

‘Let’s really get down to business, shall we?’ he’d smirked, sidling closer. ‘How do you fancy a change of profession?’

He was, in effect, bluntly suggesting that she be his mistress. He’d silkily gone on to tell her that if he didn’t appeal to her tastes, he had a choice of stalwart grooms from whom she could have her pick. ‘As a young widow you must be quite desperate for male companionship. I’ll enjoy watching.’ He’d smiled. ‘I’ll pay handsomely, of course. One hundred pounds a month, Mrs Marchmain—I promise you won’t be bored.’

She’d struck him hard on the cheek. His smile had vanished at the same time as the red mark appeared on his pale skin.

‘So you want more money, do you?’ he’d whispered. ‘A greedy little slut, are you, Mrs Marchmain?’

‘Let me out,’ she’d breathed. She’d run to the door and was struggling frantically to open it. ‘Damn you, let me out of here!’

He’d unlocked the door with an ugly look on his smooth features. ‘Don’t even think of telling anyone about what’s passed between us today,’ he’d rasped. ‘Or I’ll have you damned well ruined.’

Now she walked round this opulent book-lined room in utter agony of spirit. With a huge effort she tried to steady her racing pulse. She had dealt with Jarvis and she would deal with Davenant, though how, God only knew.

It was scarcely four, but outside the sky was growing overcast. On a nearby table some papers were scattered and, if only to distract herself from her dismaying thoughts, she went across to look. There were maps of Somerset, along with some geological sketches—to do with quarries, she guessed. Towards the back of the table was a tray of mineral samples together with a brass model of some kind of engine about a foot high, beautifully crafted.

Even though Adam Davenant’s family fortune had been made in mining and quarrying, it was unusual for anyone to display such an obvious interest in the practicalities of money-grubbing. ‘Showing his base blood,’ Edward and his friends would sneer.

Yet in spite of herself Belle’s attention was caught. She remembered how Davenant had defended the quarries to her that day on Sawle Down—they provide work and wages for many men and food for their families.

She remembered her inner acknowledgement that he was right. That sudden, instinctive feeling that he was a man of integrity …

A terrible mistake. An illusion.

She turned the model of the engine by its base, finding that the cold precision of it somehow soothed her roiling mind. A steam engine, she guessed; Uncle Philip Marchmain used to tell them both that steam was the future, and that the end of the world of the horse was in sight.

Well, the end of her world was in sight if she didn’t find some way of extricating herself from this appalling mess.

She put the model down and sank into a chair. What would Davenant say—what would he do—if he knew that almost every night since that fateful encounter she’d been haunted by dreams of him?

When she’d fallen from her horse that afternoon and opened her eyes to see him towering above her—dust-covered, muscular, roughly clad—she’d felt something tight impeding her breathing. He’d offered to help her to her feet and she’d rejected him, so rudely.

But she’d never forgotten the strength of his hands on her waist as he’d lifted her on to her horse. Never forgotten the sense of sheer male power that emanated from his body, the gleam of the sun on his hard cheekbones; the glimpse of his naked chest revealed by that open-necked shirt …

Her pulse thudded at the memory. She was turning the ring on her finger in nervous agitation when suddenly the door opened. Adam Davenant—Lord Jarvis’s friend and her enemy—was here again.

She jumped up from the chair as if it burned her. He pushed the door shut, folded his arms and studied her. Belle in turn acknowledged the spectacular lines of his tall, broad-shouldered figure with bitter eyes. Handsome. So handsome.

And trying so very hard to be a gentleman, she’d heard people say. But she didn’t think anyone would dare to say that to his face. Whatever his origins, this man was formidable. And most women would simply—melt.

‘Ah, Mrs Marchmain,’ he said. ‘Still here, I see.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but, yes, I am.’

He looked at his watch. ‘I can spare you ten minutes,’ he said.

Outside the afternoon sun had vanished behind dark clouds. She thought she heard the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance—which was apt, since Thor the thunder god, in the person of Mr Adam Davenant, had her in his lair. Oh, Lord …

Belle took a deep breath and began. She explained how Edward had been heir to a much-diminished estate but was working so hard to hold his inheritance together. ‘And then there were the new taxes on landowners,’ she went on, ‘and the weather was truly dreadful …’

She saw Davenant’s dark eyebrows rise in faint contempt. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So these iniquitous taxes and the unkind weather landed solely on your brother’s portion of Somerset, did they?’

She coloured hotly. ‘I see it pleases you to mock me, Mr Davenant. But I haven’t finished yet! A year ago, as you well know, Edward sold some of his land to you because of pressing debts. And you paid him a truly pitiful amount for that land …’

Something happened then. The previously impassive features of his chiselled face had become hard as granite.

‘I paid him two thousand guineas,’ said Davenant.

Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Two thousand?’

‘Yes.’ His narrowed eyes never left her face. ‘You see, I guessed that the old quarry there might benefit from reinvestment. I told him this and also offered him some shares. He turned down my offer and told me I was wrong. Nevertheless I paid him the two thousand—far more than he’d have got from anyone else.’

‘Because you knew you could make that amount many times over from the stone!’

‘Have you any idea,’ he countered grimly, ‘how much it costs to invest in equipment and labour for a re-opened quarry? It will be years before I start to see a profit; certainly no one else would have paid your brother so much. But fool that I was, I felt sorry for the young idiot.’