Louise Allen Historical Collection (83 page)

Lina moved away and picked up a hand mirror. Quinn’s touch on her chin was strangely pleasant, although, she thought with a rueful grimace, his touch anywhere would be. Her neck looked exactly as though someone had tried to strangle her. ‘I will develop a sore throat,’ she said, ‘and wrap it up in flannel. I don’t think the marks themselves will show over the top of my higher-necked gowns and once the redness fades in a few days I can safely make a recovery and remove the wrapping.’

‘Go back to bed,’ Quinn said, as he picked up the basin of water. ‘I’ll pour this away and bring the bowl back. What about your nightgown?’

‘Er...nose bleed,’ Lina improvised, digging in a drawer for a strip of flannel and a fresh nightgown. ‘We are obviously an accident-prone household. I do hope Gregor gets away safely.’

‘He’s gone,’ Quinn said, negotiating opening the door, balancing the basin and picking up his boots with the grace of a juggler. ‘I’ll knock before I come back.’

Lina changed in haste, wrapped her neck in a length of red flannel that felt immensely comforting, and scrambled back into bed. How did Quinn know Gregor had left? Did that mean the Russian knew that Quinn had been in her room? The thought was not as worrying as it might have been, she realised. Between Quinn’s propositions and her own thoroughly wanton fancies she was becoming immune to embarrassment. Or perhaps it was this strange new feeling of confidence; she had stopped worrying about things she could not change and which, set against the prospect of the scaffold, were of little importance.

The tap on the door was followed by a respectable wait before Quinn opened it to bring in the empty basin. ‘I’d best hurry and get into my own bed before Peter appears with my morning tea,’ he remarked. He paused in the doorway, his mouth twitching. ‘You need a nightcap to finish off that picture,’ he remarked. ‘You look like Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother waiting for the wolf.’

Lina twitched her dowdy flannel wrap tighter around her neck. ‘I am quite well aware of the risk from wolves, my lord.’

Quinn grinned. ‘I had noticed that,’ he remarked as he closed the door behind himself.

L
ina expected the events of the previous evening and night to make things awkward between herself and Quinn once the intimacy of the bedchamber was behind them. But the need to play their parts in front of the staff only deepened the feeling of complicity between them.

She remembered to exclaim in concern at the sight of Quinn’s bandaged hands at breakfast and to provoke him by making a great fuss over his humane efforts to free the fox. It was not difficult to speak with a catch in her voice, for her throat felt bruised both inside and out and the staff brought her honey to go in her tea and promises of the recipe for Trimble’s late mother’s infallible remedy for quinsy of the throat.

‘I do not appear to be coming down with a cold,’ she told Quinn, answering his convincing concern about whether she should be resting in her room. She really should be treating him with cool reserve, but that was impossible when she was so grateful to him for rescuing her from her choking nightmare at the cost of painfully lacerated hands. And he had behaved impeccably afterwards, which confused her. If he could only be consistently wicked she would at least know where she was with him.

‘I think I will take a walk into Upper Cleybourne and go to the shop,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the fresh air will help my throat.’

‘Would you like me to accompany you?’ Quinn asked as the footman left the room with a tray full of empty dishes. ‘I can renew my attempts on your virtue in sunlight for variety.’

‘You—’ Lina put down the spoonful of warm milk toast with honey that she had been about to eat. ‘Last night you behaved faultlessly. Now you say you still want to make me your mistress?’

‘Of course.’ Quinn watched her from under hooded lids, his eyes amused at her indignation. ‘If I was simply in the grip of uncontrollable lust, then I would have tried to ravish you last night, which, you will agree, would not have been the action of a gentleman.’ He paused as though expecting a response, but Lina did not rise to the bait. ‘As it is, I am perfectly in control of myself and just as determined as I was last night to reach an agreement with you.’ He paused, again waiting for her retort, but she simply glared at him. ‘And it is not, my dear Celina, because you are
convenient.
’

‘If you are not looking for convenience, my lord,’ she said with a sweet smile as the footman came back with a fresh pot of coffee, ‘then I suggest you ride into Norwich. I am sure there are places that can supply the commodity you seek in abundance.’

‘Yes, but not the quality, I suspect,’ Quinn replied.

There really was no response to that, not in front of the servants. What would Quinn say, she wondered, if he discovered that the experienced married woman he thought he was propositioning was actually a virgin with a completely theoretical knowledge of the arts of love?

There were the arts of love and the art of loving, Lina thought as she walked through the park an hour later, the red flannel replaced with a soft silk scarf. Quinn was doubtless well versed in the former, but he quite obviously had no intention, or desire, to look for love—and love was the only thing that made the risks of lovemaking worthwhile, she decided.

Without it the woman was vulnerable. She would be left no longer marriageable, possibly with child and, if she had been so foolish as to fall in love with the man, emotionally shattered. Look at what had happened to Mama and Aunt Clara—ruined, deceived and abandoned. Their only recourse had been to selling themselves and they had not even been left with child. The simple fact of their lost virginities was sufficient.

Virtue, Lina told herself firmly, would have to be its own reward. Not, of course, that virtue would reward her now she had lived in a brothel. If that came out, she was as ruined as she would be if she had sold herself there.

The walk helped blow away the last wisps of the nightmare and she felt better by the time she reached Morston’s Stores. They sold everything from boot laces to papers of pins, ink and sealing wax, sewing requisites and tobacco. They were also the receiving office for the mails and the depot for the London newspapers, she was reminded as she met Mrs Willets in the doorway, her daughters at her back. The squire’s wife had a folded newspaper in her basket, the
Morning Chronicle
banner clear at the top.

‘Miss Haddon.’

‘Mrs Willets.’ Lina smiled. Perhaps she could mend bridges a little now it was obvious that Quinn’s arrival had not resulted in scandalous behaviour to rock the neighbourhood.

‘A word with you, if you please. Anna, June, carry on home without me.’ Lina found herself marched around the corner of the shop and into the mouth of a sheltered alleyway. ‘Miss Haddon, I must ask that you do not approach either my daughters or myself, now that you have seen fit to associate with the new Lord Dreycott.’

‘Associate? Mrs Willets, his late lordship had taken me into his home. By remaining there, as I am entitled under the terms of his will, I am not
associating
with his great-nephew, if by that you mean engaging in immoral behaviour.’

‘It most certainly is what I mean. You are residing in the same house as a notorious libertine and with no chaperon.’ Mrs Willets was pink in the face, her voice strident with righteous indignation. ‘How you had the effrontery to introduce him to the congregation last Sunday, I cannot imagine.’

‘As I have an entirely clear conscience with respect to Lord Dreycott, and as he is now a notable member of local society, I saw it as my duty,’ Lina retorted. Her conscience was clear—she had refused Quinn’s advances and her inner desires were no business of anyone else.

‘Your duty? Hah! Well, I see it as my duty to protect the respectable women and girls of this parish, Miss Haddon, and I can tell you that you are not welcome here, you Jezebel.’

‘What will you do, Mrs Willets? Have me stoned in the village street? Your assumptions say more about your own mind and lack of charity than they do my morals. Good day to you.’

Lina drew her skirts to one side and swept past the affronted matron and into the shop. ‘Good morning, Mr Lucas. Have you any broad blue satin ribbon?’

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse to serve her, then the shopkeeper pulled open a drawer and laid it on the counter. He might have turned his back on Lord Dreycott in the churchyard, but a substantial part of his income came from the Park and she suspected he was not going to risk losing it, even if the squire’s wife disapproved.

Lina untied her bonnet and took it off so she could match the lining with the ribbons in the drawer and replace the frayed ones that trimmed it now. One looked perfect and she took it out and went to the door with it to hold it against the bonnet in the better light.

Mrs Willets glared at her from the other side of the street where she was talking to one of her bosom bows. Presumably taking one’s bonnet off in public was a further sign of depravity. Chin up, she went and bought two yards of the blue satin and the sealing wax Trimble had asked for. Mr Lucas made up the parcel and she paid cash and went out with it, ignoring the staring women.

It took the gloss off the lovely morning, she thought as she walked back between the gate lodges and along the carriage road through the park. The thought of six months in hiding in a village where she was now shunned was not a pleasant one, although she supposed she could go to church and do her shopping in the nearby towns of Cromer or Holt.

If she could only find out what was happening in London. Was Aunt Clara better or worse? Had she found anyone to help clear Lina’s name? Then the idea came to her. Mrs Golding, the cook at The Blue Door, lived out, at her daughter’s house off the Strand. She could read, she was devoted to her employer and had always been friendly with Lina. A letter to her, enclosing one for Aunt Clara, could be delivered without anyone else being any the wiser.

Now she had the idea, she could not wait. Lina ran; her bonnet blew off and hung down her back and her hair began to come down, but she did not care. Breathless, she arrived at the front door just as it opened and Quinn came out.

She beamed at him and he smiled back, then took her round the waist with his bandaged hands and lifted her, laughing up at her flushed and excited face. ‘Put me down,’ she gasped, still laughing, but he merely turned on his heel so she was spun round in a circle, hair flying.

‘You look as though you lost a farthing and found a guinea,’ he teased, coming to a halt at last and lowering her until her feet touched the ground.

‘I am going to write a letter.’ Lina felt the laughter gradually ebb away to be replaced by a feeling she could not understand. She felt a little breathless, rather serious, almost apprehensive. And yet it was not an unpleasant sensation. Quinn must have seen something in her face, for he sobered, too, moving closer, his hands still at her waist, his gaze steady on her face.

Then he blinked and dipped his head to deliver a rapid kiss on her parted lips. ‘What am I thinking of, standing looking at a beautiful woman and not trying to kiss her? I must be losing my touch.’ But his tone was at odds with his serious face and the slight frown between the dark, straight brows. And then he released her and strode off towards the stables, leaving Lina on the steps, her fingertips pressed to her lips, her pulse racing.

There was no writing paper in her room, so she went to the study once she had restored her windswept appearance to normality and made sure her scarf hid the red marks on her neck. The door was not locked, so she assumed there would be nothing on view that Quinn wanted to keep private, but she was taken aback by the piles of papers on every surface.

It was all neatly ordered, docketed with coloured slips tucked in here and there, and she glanced at the piles, curious to see what it all was. Blue slips, she realised after a few minutes, related to old Simon’s memoirs and a small stack of papers covered in a strong, neat black hand sat next to a far larger one, many of the pages yellowing and the handwriting thinner and more sprawling.

Other piles with green slips related to the estate and finally there was a smaller section with red labels.
Ottoman Court; trade and shipping; religious ritual; harems and the position of women,
Lina read as she walked along the trestles, peering at the work. Quinn Ashley was organised, knowledgeable and very hard working, she realised when she had walked right around the room.

She sat at the desk and drew a clean sheet of paper towards her, but it was a moment before she dipped the pen in the inkwell. She had dismissed Quinn as a dilettante, a seeker after sensation and Eastern luxury, and he was nothing of the kind. He had been right when he had said that he had many facets and she wondered now if she understood him at all. Which was the true Quinn Ashley? The ruthless rake who happened also to be a scholar and a traveller, or the scholar who enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh and thought it hypocrisy to pretend that he did not?