The Earl's Untouched Bride (22 page)

Mechanically, he bit into the slice of cold mutton pie Giddings had slid onto his plate, only to leap up at the sound of small feet crossing the hall, followed by the noise of the front door slamming.

Wiping his mouth with his linen napkin, he strode into the hall, Giddings at his heels.

'Where has she gone?' Charles barked at Finch, who froze in an attitude of guilt by the console table.

'I am sorry, my lord, I do not know.'

'She did not order the coach,' Giddings mused. 'She must not intend to go far.'

Charles was barely able to restrain the impulse to race upstairs and check her cupboards, to see if she had packed her bags and left him. Good God, losing Felice was as nothing compared to what it would be like if Heloise should desert him.

Barely suppressing the panic that clutched coldly at his stomach, he fixed a baleful stare on the hapless Finch, and asked, 'What was she carrying?'

'Umm...' Finch thought for a moment. 'Well, nothing as I can recall. Though Sukey had what looked like a long sort of tube thing.' He frowned. 'Might have been a parasol, wrapped up in brown paper.'

A parasol? A woman did not run away from her husband armed only with a parasol, whether she had wrapped it in brown paper or not. He ran a shaky hand over his face as he returned to the relative sanctuary of his library. He could not go on like this. Whether she could believe in his remorse, whether she could ever forgive him, or even understand what had driven him to say what he had, was beside the point. He had to tell her he would accept whatever terms she cared to name so long as she promised not to leave him.

It was late when she returned. He decided to give her only sufficient time to put off her coat and take some refreshment before going up to her room with the speech it had taken him all afternoon to perfect.

Five more minutes, he thought, snapping his watch closed and returning it to his waistcoat pocket.

He looked up, on hearing a slight noise from the doorway, to see Giddings making an apologetic entrance.

'Begging your pardon, my lord, but there is a man who insists you will want to see him. When I informed him you were not receiving, he told me to give you this.' Giddings laid a rolled-up piece of paper on the desk, concluding, 'He is awaiting your answer in the small salon. I would have left him in the hall, but he insisted that the matter was of the utmost delicacy, and that he did not wish Her Ladyship to see him.'

Charles' hand shot out to unroll the single sheet of drawing paper. He could see, after one glance, that it was his wife's work.

It was the night he had taken her to the theatre. The boxes that overlooked the stage were populated by various creatures, though the one which leapt out at him was a sleek black panther, with one paw upon the neck of the sheep who shared his box. It was Lensborough to the life, and the sheep undoubtedly the silly young lightskirt he currently had in keeping. The stage was populated by a flock of sheep, too, with ribbons in their curly fleeces, and all of them with wide, vulnerable eyes. The audience that filled the pit comprised a pack of wolves, their tongues hanging out as they eyed the helpless morsels penned on the stage.

Was this what Sukey had been carrying this afternoon when she had gone out with Heloise? Not a parasol, however disguised, but this picture, rolled up just as Giddings had presented it to him? And, if so, where had she taken it
—
and who was the man who had brought it back to him?

For the first time that day Charles recalled that Heloise had other troubles than being married to a man she'd grown to hate. Last night Robert had tried to make her tell him what they were. Instead of listening to her, he had totally lost his head and driven her away, confirming her opinion that he was 'cold and proud and unapproachable'.

'Send the fellow in,' he ordered Giddings. Seating himself behind the desk, he schooled his features so that they revealed nothing of his inner turmoil. That this man had one of his wife's sketches and had dared to use it as a calling card was enough to set his back up. If the scoundrel was in any way connected with whatever it was that was troubling his wife, he would soon learn he had made a bad mistake. Charles would destroy him. Slowly, painfully and completely.

'Mr Rudolph Ackermann,' Giddings announced, somewhat surprising Charles. This man was a reputable publisher, not the sort he would have expected to dabble in blackmail.

'Thank you for agreeing to see me,' Ackermann said, coming to stand before the Earl's desk. 'I apologise for the unorthodox method I employed
—
' he indicated the sketch that lay on the desk between them '
—
but I needed to get your attention.'

'You have it, sir,' Charles replied. 'State your business.' He did not invite the man to sit. Nor did he ask Giddings to bring in refreshments before dismissing him.

'Your wife came to my offices on the Strand this afternoon,' Ackermann began, the second the door closed behind Giddings. 'I would not have admitted her had she not brought her maid along. Indeed, at first, I assumed she wanted to make a purchase.'

He ran a finger round his collar, clearly growing uncomfortable under the Earl's hostile scrutiny.

'Instead, she produced a bundle of her own work, and asked me if I would pay her for them, and for as many more as would be needed to make up a volume for public sale. Since she was clearly a lady of quality, I thought it best to humour her by pretending to examine her drawings. I was amazed at how wickedly comical they were. For a while I got quite carried away with the notion of actually bringing out a book along the lines of
The Schoolmaster's Tour
. We even discussed calling it
The French Bride's Season
...' His voice faltered under the Earl's wintry stare.

'Of course,' he blustered, 'I came to my senses almost at once.' He sighed, looking wistfully at Heloise's sketch of her night at the theatre. 'I realised that such a scheme would be abhorrent to a man like you.' He cleared his throat. 'Not that she told me her real name. Indeed, I was only completely sure of her identity after my clerk returned
—
that is, the lad I sent to follow her home
—
and he told me the address of the house she came into.'

The Earl's eyes bored into Ackermann's. 'You say my wife brought you a bundle of her work? I assume you are now going to tell me you hold the rest in safekeeping?'

Ackermann looked relieved. 'Precisely so. If I had not persuaded her that I would buy them all she would simply have taken them to another publisher. Someone who might not share my scruples.'

'Scruples?' the Earl repeated, his lips twisting into a cynical sneer.

'Yes.' Ackermann's face set in implacable lines as he finally understood what the Earl was implying. 'My lord, my business relies on the goodwill of men of your class. If I were to expose your wife to scandal I know full well you would break me. I have taken what steps I could, in good faith, to prevent Lady Walton's actions from coming to light. I gave her a modest payment, to ensure she would not think of going to someone who might enjoy seeing you humiliated...'

'A modest payment?'

'Five guineas.'

'You make a poor sort of blackmailer if all you require of me is five guineas.'

Ackermann looked as though he was hanging onto his temper by the merest thread. 'Whoever may be blackmailing your wife, it is not I. Though she is clearly trying to raise a large sum of money in a hurry.'

Charles stroked his chin thoughtfully. He took another look at the sketch, then at Ackermann's indignant posture, recalling his wife's distress in this very room the night before.

'How much money did she say she wanted?'

'Five hundred guineas.'

For several minutes Charles said nothing.

Heloise was in need of five hundred guineas, but she found him so unapproachable she would probably rather die than ask him for anything. Especially now.

And yet... He tapped on the arm of his chair thoughtfully. If he could somehow supply her with the funds she needed, in such a way that he did not appear as the tyrant of her imagination...

'Take a seat, Mr Ackermann,' he said. 'While I spell out exactly what I wish you to do for me.'

Heloise did not know whether to massage her aching wrist or rub at the frown that felt like a hot knife welded between her eyebrows. She had sat up all night, putting finishing touches to any half-started sketches she could find, so that she could impress Mr Ackermann with her industry at this morning's interview.

Although if he was only going to give her five guineas per drawing, she had realised just as she was climbing into the cab, she would have to sell him another ninety-nine to clear the debt. It would take her months to raise five hundred guineas this way. Even if he agreed to buy everything she ever drew, which was hardly likely.

She slumped back into the grimy leather seat, chewing at her lower lip. She still had Felice's emerald ring. Charles had said it was quite valuable. Since she was never going to wear it, it might as well go the way her sister had originally intended.

And, since she was never going out again, she would not be needing all the expensive gowns Charles had bought her. In Paris she had thought nothing of going to peddlers of second-hand clothes. There was bound to be a similar market in London. Particularly for beautifully embroidered creations from the salon of Madame Pichot.

By the time the cab reached its destination Heloise was drawn tight as a bowstring. Since it was a bad business tactic to reveal her state of nerves, she pulled her shoulders down and raised her chin as she took a seat in Mr Ackermann's office. The drawings she had left with him the day before were already spread across his desk. He took her latest offerings, slowly perusing every single page.

Little shafts of hope streaked through her every time his lips twitched in amusement. He hovered for the longest time over her depiction of her presentation. At first glance it looked as though she had drawn a lily pond, surrounded by reeds amongst which elegant herons were poised, eyeing the fat carp drowsing in the shallows. The puffed-up toads squatting on their lily pads were easy enough to identify. It took him a little longer to work out which personage each fish or bird represented.

'Is this all you have?' he eventually asked her.

'Yes, but I promise you I can produce as many as you wish. I will work every hour of the day and night...?

'No, no.' He held up his hand to stop her. 'I shan't need any more.'

When her face fell, he swiftly explained, 'I am willing to give you five hundred guineas for what we have here.'

She gasped, pressing her hands to her cheeks as he slid an envelope across the desk towards her. 'You are giving me all the money now? Just like that?'

'Just like that,' he replied, with a wry twist to his mouth.

She grabbed the envelope before he changed his mind, and tried to stuff it into her reticule. It would not fit. Even folded, it was far too bulky. She clutched it to her bosom, bowing her head as a wave of faintness washed over her. It was terrifying to have so much money on her person. What if she lost it? She had to get home and hand it over to Robert at once. She leapt to her feet and made blindly for the door.

Once there, she turned back, gasping, 'I am sorry if I appear rude, but so large a sum of money...'

The strangest look flitted across his face. It was almost as though he pitied her. But his brisk, 'Good morning,' as he began to tidy her drawings from his desk-top was such a businesslike dismissal she decided that in her nervous state she must have imagined it.

As soon as the door had closed behind her, the Earl of Walton emerged from his place of concealment. Sparing only a second to nod his acknowledgement to Mr Ackerman for playing his part so well, Charles set out in hot pursuit of his wife.

He hated resorting to following her like this. But how else was he to find out why she needed five hundred guineas? He had abandoned the idea of simply demanding an explanation almost as soon as it had occurred to him. He would not give her any further grounds for accusing him of bullying her.

It was not long before it became apparent she was going straight home. He bit down on a feeling of frustration as he watched her climb the front steps. He might have to shadow her movements closely for some time before discovering what she intended to do with the money.

He slipped into the hall so soon after her that the footman did not even have time to close the door behind her.

And saw her disappearing into Robert's rooms.

She had flown straight to him!

It always came back, somehow, to Robert.

A series of images flitted in rapid succession through his brain. Heloise embracing Robert in this hall, telling him he was her only friend. Heloise wafting up the stairs with a smile playing about her lips after the masquerade.

Given her family's propensity for eloping at the drop of a hat, he could only draw one conclusion.

Thrusting his hat into the hovering footman's outstretched hands, he strode across the hall, pushing Linney aside as he plunged into his brother's rooms hard on his wife's heels.