Fallen Angel

‘What I have seen has impressed me greatly. If you would like to put your figures together and send them to my secretary, I’m sure we could be of assistance.’

Mentioning a large sum of money, he leaned across the table and wrote down a name and address.

‘It has been most interesting, Mrs Plummer.’ He could hear that the music in the background had stopped and suddenly he had no desire to have Brenna Stanhope discover him here. Not now. Not yet. ‘And I am sure we shall be seeing each other again.’ Opening the door, he strode down the hallway to the outside sunshine and was pleased to see his man ready and waiting with the horses.

Betsy Plummer watched as he entered his coach and then she hurried back inside as soon as the conveyance had turned the corner.

‘Brenna, Kate,’ she called loudly, her voice shrill with unquestioned elation. ‘We got it, he’s promised us so much.’ Two faces came into sight, whooping with laughter and relief. ‘And you should see him, girls,’ Betsy added slowly. ‘He’s the most handsome man I think I’ve ever seen.’

Warning bells rang in Brenna’s ears. ‘What did you say his name was again, Betsy?’ she asked slowly, fearing the answer.

‘The Earl of Deuxberry,’ crooned the other, and Brenna expelled her indrawn breath with relief.

The months aged into November and the summer weather seemed all but gone. Brenna settled again into her comfortable, untroubled existence now that Nicholas Pencarrow seemed happy to leave her alone, though at nights sometimes, when the business of the day had receded, she allowed herself to daydream about him. Quietly at first and then with more ardour, the Duke of Westbourne’s gold-green eyes and lopsided smile invaded her fantasies, leaving her with a feeling of guilty pleasure in the morning and a firming resolution to put him from her memory.

At Beaumont Street things had become more agreeable, for under the patronage of Lord Deuxberry much of the old leaking plumbing had been fixed and the dormitories had been lined to make them warmer as they awaited the onslaught of winter. His chits came with a regularity no one dared to question and all hoped would continue, for, apart from the first visit, they had never dealt with him again directly, but rather with his chief secretary, a dour-faced but competent man called Winslop.

Today Mr Winslop had come to call with invitations in hand, one each for Brenna, Betsy and Kate, asking them to a supper Lord Deuxberry was hosting at his home in Kensington. Brenna felt uneasy as the man spelled out what would be expected of them.

‘His Lordship has made it very clear he would like the three of you to come. I think he may be ill pleased were this not to be the case as he has gone to some trouble to assemble an audience whose patronage would be forthcoming should you promote your orphanage well. It will not be too formal. If the weather is kind it may even spill out into the conservatory and, if not, all three drawing rooms will be in commission.’

Kate and Betsy looked at each other as they imagined the magnificence of the house. Brenna stared straight ahead and knew exactly what it would be like. Her one year out in the season had been so indelibly impressed on her mind, how could she not remember? The staff would stand at attention whilst cynical well-dressed men and women would condescendingly dissect their mission, their clothes, their manners and their looks, piece by piece until there was little left. And the worst of it was that she was caught, she would have to go, for to displease this patron could affect the welfare of the children who, after all, had no hand in the realm of these politics.

Mr Winslop handed each of them an invitation, their names printed boldly in black and he spoke quickly as he stood to depart.

‘The sixth is the date set, as you can see. I could arrange for his Lordship’s carriage to be sent if you should wish it so.’

Brenna shook her head, breaking in across his instructions. ‘No, my uncle will lend us his conveyance.’ The others nodded at her suggestion, anxious to be able to leave when they wanted rather than to be marooned in such illustrious company and dependent only on the whim of Lord Deuxberry.

Mr Winslop demurred and closed his book, handing over yet another chit to Betsy. ‘Very well, then. We will see you all next week.’

Five days later Brenna, Betsy and Kate found themselves pulling into the drive of a house far bigger than any of them could have imagined.

‘He must be one of the richest men in England,’ Brenna said as she observed the huge mansion and all the women looked at each other with undisguised apprehension. ‘No wonder he can afford to help us.’

‘Lord Deuxberry…’ The name ran upon her lips as she strove for any recollection of such an aristocrat when she was doing the season and failing in her quest. It was strange that she did not know of him, given his obvious wealth, for such opulence rarely went hand in hand with anonymity.

The carriage stopped outside the front portico, two footmen walking down huge marble steps to help them alight and accompany them to the butler, who stood stiffly at the main doorway.

Nicholas came out a moment later and his breath froze in his throat as he watched Brenna, dressed in simple blue, hair bound simply and face alight, her beauty reflected somehow in the moonbeams that danced across the glass dome above her, isolating her in the silver of an ethereal lightness.

‘Ladies,’ he said gently, striding forward on long legs, his gaze fastened firmly on Brenna Stanhope, ‘welcome to my home.’

Brenna whirled towards the voice, her glance snapping to his face. The Duke of Westbourne! For a second she thought to turn and leave—indeed, took the first step—before reason stopped her, and in that second she knew that this trap had been set most wisely, with patience and stealth. Her heart beat loudly in her ears as she forced her body into a stillness she was far from feeling, fists clenched white at her side as his hand came forward. She did not dare to let him touch her for fear of feeling again the sharp knowledge of his skin and was pleased when he let his fingers fall. The gentleness in his eyes flummoxed her, though, given her obvious insult, as did his next words.

‘I watched you from the balcony as you were on the piano playing “Ring a Roses”,’ he explained softly, his smile touching his eyes.

‘Indeed, Lord Deuxberry,’ she stressed the title and raised her chin, licking her lips in an unconscious message of fear.

‘I sometimes use the name, which is also mine by right, for it lets me function more anonymously.’

He looked straight at her and, liking his directness, she smiled.

Her face changed from hard to soft in a second, large dimples gracing both cheeks and liquid eyes dancing with lightness. God, she was so beautiful, how could her season here ever have gone poorly?

‘Could I take you through to meet our guests?’ he asked quietly. ‘I have tried to assemble a group who are the least wolfish that I know and also the most generous.’ Kate and Betsy nodded at his words.

Brenna frowned. Lord, please let there be none amongst them that she might once have known.

The drawing room was full of guests though the gaslights burned low, almost as candles, evoking a sense of warm friendliness conducive to their cause, and she felt heartened by the half-light. Missing Nicholas’s sign to his secretary to take the others, she found herself escorted by the Duke, and, as he introduced her to the guests with an unaffected charm, she noticed the deference he was accorded by all with whom he chatted. He made it easy for her to speak of the orphanage, bridging the way with his own admission of patronage. In his company, buffered as she was from any more personal queries, she felt herself relax, all the dreads and fears of discovery pushed away.

As she asked for their coats at the end of the night, she could not credit just where the time had gone.

‘Would you permit me to show you my home before you go?’ Nicholas asked the group as they stood at the front door. Kate and Betsy jumped at the chance, Brenna looked more tentative. ‘Just the music room, then?’ he compromised and led the three across into the other side of the house to a large glassed conservatory filled with palms and flowers, a fish pond along one end of the windows and a huge grand piano down towards the other. The women gasped in astonishment at the size and beauty of the place, so unexpected and inviting. Betsy and Kate moved to the pond and Brenna to the piano, where her fingers tinkled lightly across ivory keys checking its tone. Nick watched her and stood quietly as she played a simple arpeggio.

‘Would you like to play?’

His voice was husky and her eyes expressed her confusion. ‘No, thank you. It’s very beautiful, but now we have to go.’ The words came stilted and formal across her tongue and she sensed his disappointment. ‘My Lord…’ she began, but he held up a hand to stop her.

‘Nicholas, please.’

‘My Lord,’ she continued more firmly, ‘I have no doubt you have patronised our orphanage purely out of a misdirected belief that you owe me something. I helped you at Worsley simply because you were in trouble and now I want to know that you are helping the children of our orphanage simply because they are in trouble. Tonight was an invitation that, had I known the truth of your identity, I would have refused, and in the future I would like you to know that this cannot happen again. You have paid your debt with more than interest, your chits come regularly and with a generosity that staggers us all. But I am not part of the bargain, my Lord. You could never pay enough for me.’

He stood watching her, stepping back slightly, wondering why life held her so rigid and noticing the way her lips turned up at each end, even when she did not smile. She was both beautiful and clever—he had not expected that. He observed her carefully and began slowly, mindful of the other two who looked about to join them. ‘May I ask but one small favour, Miss Stanhope?’

Uncertain violet eyes regarded him.

‘If I was able to get a private ballet performance of the Christmas version of La Sylphide at Her Majesty’s Theatre, would you and the children do me the honour of being the audience?’

Brenna gasped at the invitation. ‘You could do that?’ she asked, amazed that he should think such a feat even possible, her mind running to the reviews she had heard of the pageant made famous by Marie Taglioni herself.

‘Money can buy dreams,’ he said quietly, watching the smile die in her eyes and perplexed by her answer.

‘That is debatable, my Lord,’ she whispered distantly, ‘for more often it kills them.’

Charles Pencarrow bounded into the southern drawing room of Pencarrow House the next afternoon and Nicholas stood to greet his younger brother with delight.

‘Charlie,’ he said, shaking the proffered hand with warmth. ‘When did you arrive up from Hertfordshire and why did you not let me know you were coming? Grandmama is not with you, is she?’ He looked around behind his brother for any sign of his grandmother, Elizabeth, Dowager Duchess of Westbourne, his eyes coming back to Charles for his answer.

‘Grandmama is not here, and I was only coming for the day except the meeting in London went on for longer than I had hoped, so I deemed it safer to wait here and go home in the morning.’

Nick nodded and crossed to the cabinet behind him. ‘You want to join me in a drink? Whisky?’

‘Brandy, I think. I’d already started on one at the club before I heard the news.’

‘News?’ Nicholas asked, a puzzled frown across his face. ‘What news?’

‘The news that a girl dressed like a nun turned down an invitation to the symphony from the highly acclaimed, but perhaps overrated, Duke of Westbourne.’