Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride (2 page)

I
think I’ve found the house you wanted, my lord. Only Daventry I could find. It’s on Christmas Steps.

Yes?

Only thing, my lord—there’s a young woman living there from what I could find out…a Mrs Daventry…

Good Lord!
Julian stood at the top of Christmas Steps and wondered if he was insane even thinking of descending the alley. Modbury had thought so, and Julian could see his point. The alley was positively medieval, and so steep someone had actually built steps. According to Modbury it led down to the old quay, and at least once had housed the sort of establishments sailors on shore leave frequented—brothels and taverns.

You can’t visit, my lord!

The hell he couldn’t. Gripping his umbrella, Julian started down the slippery steps. There were two possibilities. Either Daventry kept a whore down here—it was not unknown for a woman to use her protector’s name—or he was already married. On the whole, Julian thought a conveniently distant wife more likely; a mistress was only convenient if she were close enough to bed regularly. Either, however, would settle Lissy’s idealistic infatuation, if a description of the alley wasn’t enough.

It was dark in the alley and a dank chill closed in, with a
reek of cabbage, fish and sour humanity on the breeze rattling the shop signs. The old, timbered houses with their cantilevered upper storeys loomed over the street, holding light and fresh air at bay. A couple of seedy-looking taverns were the only hard evidence of the street’s former reputation. There were few people about, but suspicious eyes followed him from doorways and windows. He consulted the address Modbury had given him—there, on the opposite side, just before the next set of steps between a fishmonger and an apothecary, was the house he sought.

A one-eyed, moth-eaten cat sheltering in the lee of the building flattened its ears and hissed, slinking away as he approached the open door.

A voice was raised.

‘Now be sensible, missy. I got Mr Daventry’s letter and it says, right here, “the house and all its contents”! See?
All
its contents. Not “all its contents if no one else happens to want them”. So—’

‘Well, I assume you’re not planning to put
me
on the auction block along with my clothes and hairbrush as part of the contents!’ came another voice. A prim, schoolmistressy voice a man would think twice about annoying.

The voice went on. ‘And if you can make that distinction, then you should be capable of exempting the rest of my personal property.’ Irony gave way to anger. ‘And since Mr Daventry is my brother and not my husband, he owns neither them nor me!’

Blast! Probably not wife, then. Mistress remained a possibility…

The angry woman continued, ‘When you return next week, you may
have
the house and all its contents because I shall have removed myself and
my
possessions to lodgings!’

Through the open door Julian could now see a large, beefy-looking man, in the old-fashioned knee breeches and frieze coat of a respectable tradesman. He had his back half-turned, but there was no mistaking the rising annoyance in the set of his jaw.

‘Now see here, missy!’ he growled, all attempt at reason abandoned. ‘’Twas unfortunate I misunderstood how things were, but there’s no call to take that tone! I’ll be calling in the sheriff and
bailiffs if you remove more than your clothes and hairbrush. Everything, the letter says, and I’ve made a list, I have!’ He brandished a piece of paper, presumably in his unseen opponent’s face. ‘If aught’s missing, I’ll have the law on you!’

It was none of his business, Julian told himself. Common sense dictated that he remain out of any legal brangle between Daventry and his
sister
. Only this wasn’t Daventry…and exactly what situation had the man misunderstood?

The woman spoke again. ‘You may leave, Goodall. I suggest you clarify your instructions with my brother. In the meantime my solicitor will call upon you.’

Goodall, far from being abashed, took a step forward, presumably towards the woman.

‘Are you threatening me, missy?’ His voice had turned thoroughly unpleasant.

‘Leave!’ Sister or not, the undercurrent of fear in her tone flung Julian into action. Three swift strides took him over the threshold.

‘Goodall!’ he rapped out.

The man swung around. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘The lady told you to leave,’ said Julian coldly. ‘As an acquaintance of Daventry, I suggest you do so before I speak with the magistrates on his behalf about entering this lady’s home and harassing her. Out.’

He strode past Goodall with scarcely a glance at the woman. All he could see was that she was of medium height, bespectacled and clad in dull brown. His attention was on the aggrieved Mr Goodall, and he deliberately interposed himself between them.

Goodall flushed. ‘Now, see here—’

‘Out.’ He delved in his pocket and pulled out his cardcase. ‘As for who I am…’ He took out a card and handed it to Goodall ‘…I’m Braybrook.’

He gestured to the door and Goodall, his face now as pale as it had been red, swallowed.

‘I’m sure…that is…I didn’t mean—’

‘Out!’

Goodall went.

Julian closed the door and turned to receive the heartfelt gratitude of his damsel in distress—

‘I have no idea who you may be, but you will oblige me by also leaving.’

Frost glittered at him from behind unbecoming spectacles. And there was something odd about her direct gaze, something faintly disconcerting—as though she had the ability to see straight through. Right now he wouldn’t have wagered a penny on her liking what she saw.

As for what
he
saw—the woman was a quiz. Her hair colour remained a mystery under an all-enveloping and extremely ugly cap. As did whatever figure she might possess beneath a gown remarkable only for its sheer shapelessness and being the drabbest brown he’d ever seen.

Any lingering hope of her being Daventry’s doxy faded. No self-respecting doxy would wear the gown, let alone the spectacles.

And she faced him with her chin up, her jaw set, and her mouth a flat, determined line.

‘No gratitude, ma’am?’ he drawled.

Those queerly penetrating eyes narrowed. ‘I’m reserving it until I know who you are, and why you entered my home without my leave,’ was the icy rejoinder.

‘Well, you won’t discover either of those things if you kick me out into the street,’ he pointed out with what he freely acknowledged to be unforgivable logic.

It seemed she concurred. One small fist clenched and the pale cheeks flushed. Otherwise her control held.

‘Very well. Who are you?’

He supposed she could not be blamed for being suspicious. He took out his card case and extracted another card, holding it towards her.

There was a moment’s hesitation before she moved, and then it was warily, watchful eyes on his face as she took the card. At once she stepped beyond his reach behind a settle before examining the card.

He watched, fascinated. There was something about her, about her face—what was it? Apart from that she looked cold.

She was glaring at him again.

‘So, Lord Braybrook—assuming you are Lord Braybrook and not some scoundrel—’

‘I’m obliged to point out that the two are not mutually exclusive,’ he said.

She positively bristled. ‘That I can well believe!’ Then, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! One of my eyes is blue and the other brown! And now perhaps you will stop staring at me!’

One was blue, the other…So they were. He could see it now; behind the spectacles one eye was a soft, misty blue and the other hazel brown.

‘And, no, I am not a witch,’ she informed him.

He smiled. ‘I assumed you weren’t, since Goodall left in human form rather than as a toad.’

For a split second there was a flare in her eyes that might have been laughter. A lift at the corner of the mouth, which was, he suddenly saw, surprisingly lush. Soft pink lips that for a moment looked as though they might know how to smile.

The impression vanished like a snowflake on water.

‘Frivolity,’ she said, as one who identifies a beetle, all the softness of her mouth flattened in disapproval.

‘Ah, you recognised it,’ he said with a bow.

This time her eyes widened, but she controlled herself instantly.

Intrigue deepened. What would it take to crack her self-control?

‘Do all your rescuers receive this charming response?’ he asked. ‘It’s true, you know; I am acquainted with Harry. As for my motives; I was coming to call on you and overheard Goodall. I interfered out of disinterested chivalry, Mrs Daventry.’

‘Miss Daventry,’ she corrected him.

He watched her closely. ‘Oh? I understood a Mrs Daventry lived here?’

Her expression blanked. ‘Not now. My mother died some months ago.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said quietly. ‘My condolences.’

‘Thank you, my lord. Will you not be seated?’

She gestured to a battered wingchair by the empty fireplace. The leather upholstery bore evidence of several cats having loved it rather too well. The only other seat was the uncomfortable-looking wooden settle opposite with a damp cloak hung over it. He took the settle and, at a faint startled sound from her, glanced over his shoulder to catch the surprise on her face.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘You can’t have thought I’d take the chair!’

Her mouth primmed. ‘I’ve noticed gentlemen prefer a comfortable chair, yes.’

His opinion of Harry Daventry slid several notches. ‘Then they weren’t gentlemen, were they?’

Her mouth thinned further. ‘And you are?’

He laughed. ‘Usually. I’ll warn you if I feel the urge to behave too badly.’

‘Very obliging of you. May I offer you tea?’

Prim. Proper. As calm as though she entertained the vicar.

Tea, though. He didn’t like tea at the best of times. And imagining the quality of tea he was likely to receive here sent shivers down his spine. His spine’s concerns aside, however, good manners dictated acceptance. And Miss Daventry looked as though a hot drink would do her good.

‘Thank you, ma’am. That would be very pleasant.’

She nodded. ‘Then please excuse me. My servant is out.’ With a graceful curtsy, she left through a door at the back of the parlour.

Julian took a deep breath and looked around the cramped room. This was what he had come for, after all: to judge Daventry’s condition for himself. And if Lissy could see this, the circumstances to which she would be reduced if she married Daventry, it might give her pause for thought.

It was spotless, though, he noticed. Absolutely spotless. As though dust dared not settle in a room tended by Miss Daventry. Everything gleamed with care. Wood waxed and polished. Not a cobweb in sight. Against one wall was a bureau bookcase, crammed with books. Julian frowned. It was old now, but it spoke of one-time wealth.

Interesting. Other things caught his eye. An old-fashioned drop-sided dining table against the wall held a lamp. Brass candlesticks that once had been silver gilt. A battered wine table, piled with more books beside the wingchair. Every sign that the Daventries had once been well to do, commanding the elegancies of life and, in sinking to this address, had clung to a few treasured reminders. Perhaps the crash of the ’90s had brought them down. He could even sympathise with their plight. His own father had steered clear of those shoals, but had not been so canny in recent years…Lord, it was cold in here!

His mouth hardened. Harry Daventry would not restore his family’s fortunes at the cost of Lissy’s happiness. No doubt Daventry’s sister would be quartered in his household…His eye fell on the books tottering on the wine table—sermons, probably, and other improving works. He picked up the top volumes and his brows rose. Sir Walter Scott—
Ivanhoe
. He looked at the next couple of books, poetry. So Miss Prim had a taste for the romantical, did she? He picked up the final volumes—Miss Austen’s
Northanger Abbey
. Serena had enjoyed that…

He set the books down, frowning. Contradictions lay hidden beneath the layers of brown sobriety and the cap. Strolling back to the settle and sitting down, he wondered what colour her hair might be. Not so much as a strand peeked from that monstrous cap. Mousy? It would suit the spectacles and that prim mouth with its iron clad composure. Although it wasn’t quite iron-clad, was it? What would it take to breach it utterly?

She would return soon. Miss Respectability, laden with a teatray needing to be put somewhere…Below the window was a small tea table.

With a sigh, he rose, shifted the table, placing it between the wingchair and the settle. Good manners, he told himself. A gentleman did these things. It had nothing to do with Miss Daventry herself or wishing to show her that not
all
men were inconsiderate oafs who took the only comfortable chair, leaving their
sister the wooden settle. Definitely nothing to do with
her.
It was simply the right thing to do.

He looked at the empty grate. It
was
cold, after all.

It was the work of a moment to lay a fire, find the tinderbox and have a small blaze going.

He had barely sat down again when the door opened and Miss Daventry came in bearing a small tray.

Shock sprang into those disquieting eyes as she saw the fire. ‘Oh, but—’

Julian rose and took the tray from her, setting it down on the table before turning back to her.

She hadn’t moved. She was staring at the little table as though wondering how it had arrived there. Then she looked at the fire. All the tension in her face, all the taut lines, dissolved, leaving her, he saw with a queer jolt, looking tired, yet as though something far more burdensome than the tray had been lifted from her.

Almost immediately she recovered, saying in her primmest tones, ‘How kind of you, my lord. Please do be seated.’

She bent over the tray and poured a cup. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘A little milk, please.’

She handed him his cup, poured her own, and sat down, her back ramrod straight.