The Second Lady Southvale Page 9

  The butler was eager to be rid of a caller he felt had no legitimate business at the house. ‘As I said, madam, perhaps if you call again tomorrow …’

  ‘Does this mean anything to you?’ she asked, taking off her glove and holding up her left hand.

  He recognized the ring immediately, and his lips parted in astonishment. ‘It – it’s Lord Southvale’s signet ring, madam.’

  ‘And does the finger I’m wearing it on suggest anything to you?’ she inquired, her tone frosty because she was suddenly so uneasy.

  He swallowed. ‘Well, yes, madam, but—’

  ‘No buts, sir, for it’s no accident that the ring is on the fourth finger of my left hand. While he was in America, Lord Southvale did me the honor of asking me to be his wife, and I accepted. I’ve traveled all the way here from my home in Washington, and I have no intention whatsoever of calling again tomorrow. I rather think his lordship will be most displeased with you when he hears how dismally you’ve treated me.’

  The two footmen by the doorway had heard everything and exchanged astonished, openmouthed glances.

  The butler gaped at her, his composure completely rattled. ‘Madam, I know nothing at all about you. Lord Southvale hasn’t said anything about marrying again.’

  It was a point that was of no small concern to Rosalind herself, although she was determined not to let the butler realize it. ‘I’m sure he has his reasons, sir, but in the meantime I expect to be offered the hospitality of this house. When is Lord Southvale expected to return?’

  ‘I don’t know, madam. Indeed, no one here knows where he’s been for several weeks now.’

  ‘Several weeks?’

  ‘Yes, madam. He left without saying where he would be or when he’d be back, although we do know that he has a very important appointment at the Foreign Office in a week’s time.’

  Her heart sank still further. Was it to be another long week before she saw him? She drew a slow breath. ‘But Lady Eleanor and Miss de Grey will be here later this evening?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait inside for them.’

  He didn’t know what to do, and the quandary was evident on his face. He didn’t know anything about her, but she was wearing his master’s signet ring, and if her story was true, by doing the wrong thing now he’d fall foul of the next Lady Southvale. Discretion was the greater part of valor, and he gave her a gracious bow. ‘Under the circumstances, Miss Carberry, I feel I must indeed offer you the hospitality of Southvale House.’ He turned, beckoning to the two footmen, ordering the first one to commence unloading her luggage from the chaise. The second one he drew a little to one side, speaking in an undertone that she wasn’t intended to hear, but that carried quite clearly. ‘Go and find Mr Beaufort without delay. Tell him he’s needed here very urgently.’

  ‘Will he be at his address in Piccadilly, Mr Richardson?’

  The butler looked witheringly at him. ‘On the Marquess of Aldington’s first night in town after coming into his inheritance? Don’t be foolish, man,’ he snapped. ‘He’ll be at one of his clubs, White’s probably, attempting to relieve the marquess of as much of his fortune as humanly possible.’

  The footman was openly appalled. ‘Call him away from his club, Mr Richardson? He won’t like it.’

  ‘This is much more important than his need to settle his gambling debts. Find him and tell him he must come here straightaway.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Richardson.’ Looking less than enthusiastic about his task, the unfortunate footman ran away across the courtyard, vanishing between the gates into St James’s Place.

  Rosalind watched him, wondering who this Mr Beaufort was. Obviously he was a relative of Celia’s, but Philip had never mentioned his first wife’s family. Maybe he was Celia’s father, or her uncle; whoever he was, he evidently wasn’t amenable to being disturbed from the gaming tables.

  The butler was addressing her. ‘If you will come this way, madam.’

  She roused herself from her thoughts, following him up the steps to the door of the house. She felt very unsettled and anxious, for this wasn’t the welcome she’d been expecting. Why hadn’t Philip said anything about her? A chill seemed to have settled over her. Something was very wrong, and she couldn’t even begin to guess what it might be.

  11

  The entrance hall was decorated and furnished in the Chinese style, and the blend of soft blues, greens, pinks, and, above all, gold was so exquisitely beautiful that it made Rosalind’s breath catch in wonder.

  Exotic gilded lanterns were suspended from a lofty domed ceiling just beneath the attic story, and the marble-balustraded floors in between encircled the area in galleries supported on Ionic columns. These floors were approached up a handsome staircase made of pink marble, with banisters fashioned like slender golden dragons. The walls were hung with ice-blue silk that had been painted in a beautiful design of lotus blossoms and peacocks, and the floor was tiled in a pattern of leaves and fish, for all the world like a pool in an Oriental garden.

  Flames licked gently around glowing coals in the ornate black marble fireplace to one side, and there were several elegant blue velvet sofas, their arms and legs inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. In the center of the floor stood a circular table with a top made of engraved silver. All the doors that opened off the ground floor, and the floors above, had gilded architraves of particular richness, and each door was guarded on either side by lifesize porcelain figures of mandarins, holding aloft lighted lamps that, together with the lanterns hanging from the ceiling, made everything almost dazzlingly bright after the darkness outside.

  The butler led her to the staircase, and as they began to ascend, the footman carried in the first item of her luggage, setting it carefully on the floor. Double doors faced the top of the first rise of the staircase, and these the butler flung open to reveal a dimly lit green-and-gold drawing-room.

  Like the rest of the house so far, it was opulently decorated and furnished in the Chinese style. Hand-painted peacocks, chrysanthemums, and pagodas adorned the green silk walls, and a specially woven carpet covered the floor in a swirl of water lilies. There were chairs and sofas upholstered in figured golden velvet, tables inlaid with different woods, and lacquered glass-fronted cabinets containing displays of porcelain, jade, and ivory. More lifesize figures stood against the walls, this time of Chinese fishermen carrying unlit jade lamps, and the crystal chandeliers suspended from the coffered ceiling had been made to resemble Oriental lanterns. Only one of the chandeliers had been lit, and this, together with the glow from the fireplace, was the only light in the room. The golden velvet curtains at the tall windows had been left undrawn, and the room was reflected in the polished glass. Beyond the reflection, she could just make out the street lamps in St James’s Place.

  The butler bowed to her. ‘If you will wait here, madam …’

  ‘Until Mr Beaufort arrives? Yes, for I have little choice.’

  He flushed a little on realizing she’d overheard in the courtyard, and he withdrew, without another word, closing the double doors softly behind him.

  Silence seemed to fold over her, so much so that she gave a start as the fire shifted suddenly. She turned quickly to look at it, and her glance was drawn to a portrait on the chimney breast above. It was a full-length figure of a breathtakingly beautiful young woman with shining dark curls, a heart-shaped face, and magnificent lilac eyes. She wore a pale-pink satin gown, and the scene in the background was of an elegant country mansion set high on a hillside. The whole was set against an ominous, thundery sky, after the style of Mr Gainsborough. It was a very fine portrait indeed. Rosalind knew without being told that it was a likeness of Celia Beaufort.

  She went a little closer, studying the sweet face. This was the woman Philip had loved, but who’d been described by Mrs Penruthin as a spiteful, selfish, disagreeable cat. What had the real Celia been like? Had she been the adorable wife Philip had believed her to be? Or was Mrs Penruthin’s description
closer to the mark? Rosalind gazed at the exquisite figure, remembering what else the Cornishwoman had said. Had handsome Dom Rodrigo de Freire been more than just a friend to Lady Southvale?

  As Rosalind studied the painting, she knew a faint feeling of hurt, for she was about to become the second Lady Southvale, and yet this arresting portrait of Philip’s first wife was still placed in a very prominent position in the house. Rosalind turned away, wondering again why Philip had apparently not said anything of his new betrothal. He’d mentioned it at the Black Horse, there was no doubt of that, but here in London no one seemed to know anything about her. Why? She glanced unwillingly at the portrait again, and then quickly away. Had he returned here, looked once more at Celia’s likeness, and known that after all he was still too much in love with her to contemplate going through with a second marriage? Was that how it had been? But even as she thought this, a further possibility occurred to her. Had he come back to London and found another new love? Had someone else stolen his heart so completely that everything in Washington was relegated to little more than a passing diversion?

  She heard a carriage approaching along St James’s Place and went to the window to look out. The carriage lamps swung as the vehicle turned in between the gates of the house. She wondered briefly if it could be Lady Eleanor and Miss de Grey returning, but then she caught a fleeting glimpse of a gentleman seated alone inside. It had to be the Mr Beaufort the butler had sent for.

  Hesitating for just a moment, she suddenly gathered her skirts to hurry to the doors, intending to go out on to the gallery to look down into the entrance hall. As she reached the balustrade, she heard someone rapping peremptorily on the door with a cane.

  The butler hastened to admit the caller. ‘Forgive me for sending for you, Mr Beaufort, but I didn’t know what else to do.’

  Mr Beaufort strode in, his cloak swirling as he turned to face the butler. ‘What in God’s name is all this about, Richardson? That fool you sent said something about a woman who claims she’s going to be the next Lady Southvale.’

  Rosalind leaned over, trying to see the newcomer’s face, but he wore a top hat that was pulled well forward, and he made no move to take it off.

  The butler was evidently very unhappy about having had to send for this particular gentleman. ‘I’m truly sorry, Mr Beaufort, but there is indeed such a lady. She’s American, and I’ve admitted her to the drawing-room.’

  Mr Beaufort gave an incredulous laugh. ‘You’ve actually allowed the creature in? Dammit, man, don’t you know a fortune-seeker when you see one?’

  ‘I’m not sure she is a fortune-seeker, sir, for she’s wearing his lordship’s signet ring.’

  There was a moment’s startled silence. ‘Are you sure it’s his ring?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Beaufort, and I have noticed that he hasn’t been wearing it since his return.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ mumured the other.

  ‘I fear the lady may indeed be what she claims to be, sir.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t he said anything about her? No, Richardson, she isn’t his new betrothed, I think we may be quite sure of that. I don’t profess to know how she came by his ring, but it’s my guess that she’s an adventuress, no more and no less.’

  On the floor above, Rosalind listened with increasing dismay, disliking the arrogant, unpleasant Mr Beaufort more with each insulting word he uttered. How dared he say such things about her without even having set eyes upon her!

  Richardson was still uneasy about everything, and not as certain as Mr Beaufort that the unwelcome arrival from America was there under false pretenses. ‘Sir, by her manner and dress, Miss Carberry is most definitely a lady, and she’s brought her luggage with her.’ He turned to indicate the cases and valises nearby.

  Mr Beaufort hadn’t noticed them before, but wasn’t impressed. ‘That doesn’t signify anything. Besides, I can tell you very certainly that she isn’t going to become the next Lady Southvale.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s quite out of the question,’ interrupted the other. ‘In fact, it’s quite impossible.’

  Rosalind gazed down at him in puzzlement. How could he say that? It was almost as if he knew something.

  Richardson looked curiously at him too, but then drew a long breath. ‘That’s as may be, Mr Beaufort, but there’s still the matter of the ring. She’s wearing it on the fourth finger of her left hand, and as his lordship hasn’t said anything about losing the ring, I have to wonder if he did indeed give it to her. I don’t know where he is at the moment, and Lady Eleanor and Miss de Grey are out at dinner, so I thought it best to send for you. You are family, sir, well, more or less …’

  ‘Very well, Richardson, since you’ve sent for me, I’ll deal with the matter. She’s in the drawing-room, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mr Beaufort turned for the butler to assist him with his cloak, and Rosalind drew back immediately from the balustrade, returning quickly to the drawing-room. She sat down on a sofa close to the fireplace, arranging her gown and pelisse as if she’d been sitting there ever since she’d first been shown in. Her heart had begun to beat more swiftly, for she knew that there wasn’t going to be anything amicable about her meeting with Mr Beaufort. He was going to ‘deal’ with her, and from his manner so far, that could only mean a hostile confrontation.

  Swift steps crossed the landing from the top of the staircase, and she steeled herself as the doors were flung unceremoniously open. The first thing she realized about Mr Beaufort as he strode in was that he was far too young to be Celia’s father, for he was somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties. Perhaps he was her cousin. He was a little above medium height, but not tall, and rather sensuously good-looking. His wavy hair was dark-chestnut in color, and his long-lashed eyes were hazel, so that he didn’t resemble the late Lady Southvale in any way whatsoever. His lips were well-shaped, but pressed angrily together, and there was something intentionally intimidating about the way he halted before Rosalind, his cold, rather disparaging glance sweeping her from head to toe. Now that he’d discarded his cloak, she saw that the clothes beneath were very elegant and fashionable. He wore a black corded-silk coat, white silk breeches, a white satin waistcoat, and a frilled shirt. There was a diamond pin sparkling in the folds of his complicated neckcloth, and he looked every inch the London gentleman of quality, except that there was nothing even remotely gentlemanly in his manner toward her.

  ‘Miss Carberry, I believe,’ he said coolly.

  ‘Mr Beaufort, I believe,’ she replied in a tone equally as cool, for she disliked him intensely, and was determined to hide how vulnerable and alone she felt.

  ‘I’m told you claim to be Philip’s future wife.’

  ‘You’re told correctly.’

  He went to a small table upon which stood a decanter and a number of glasses. As he poured himself a generous measure of cognac, he glanced deliberately toward the portrait above the fireplace. ‘Do you really imagine you can replace my sister, Miss Carberry?’

  His sister? So that’s who he was.

  He turned to face her again, the glass swirling in his hand. ‘I asked you a question, madam.’

  ‘I know you did, sir, but I don’t particullarly care for your tone. The fact that you are Lady Southvale’s brother does not give you the right to be disgracefully rude to me.’

  A light passed through his hazel eyes, and a faintly contemptuous smile touched his lips. ‘My, my, how very grand you are, to be sure.’

  ‘And how very blackguardly you are. To be sure.’ She held his gaze, thinking that he was surely the most disagreeable person it had ever been her misfortune to meet. If his late sister had been anything like him, then it was certain that Mrs Penruthin’s description of Celia Beaufort had been the right one.

  ‘I don’t have to be anything else, madam, for you aren’t going to be the next Lady Southvale, and you’ve wasted your time coming here.’

  ‘I have Philip’s ring to prove my
claim,’ she replied, holding up her hand.

  ‘You could have come by that in any number of ways, Miss Carberry.’

  ‘All of them felonious, no doubt.’

  He gave a faint smile and raised the glass to his lips.

  She smiled too, and in equally as insulting a manner. ‘Well, sir, I don’t really have to worry what you think, do I? You aren’t the master of this house.’

  His smile faded abruptly and his eyes flashed. ‘I don’t claim to be the master here, madam, but nevertheless I’ve been sent for to deal with you!’

  ‘How very tiresome for you. I’m so sorry to have dragged you away from the green baize. If you were in any way a proper gentleman, I’d express my apologies for having gotten between you and your pleasure, but since you’re anything but a gentleman, I’m really quite glad to have ruined your evening.’

  ‘Enjoy your gladness while you can, madam, for you aren’t going to be here for very long. You aren’t going to marry Philip de Grey, and if you take my advice, you’ll leave this house immediately.’

  Before Rosalind could reply, a woman’s rather imperious voice interrupted them.

  ‘What is going on here? I demand to be told immediately!’

  They both looked quickly toward the door. Two elegantly dressed ladies stood there. One was gray-haired and elderly, the other was about Rosalind’s own age, dark-haired and shyly pretty, with eyes of a very similar blue to Philip’s. They could only be his great-aunt, Lady Eleanor Laird, and his sister, Miss Katherine de Grey.

  12

  Lady Eleanor advanced into the room. She was slightly built and very patrician, with a delicately boned face and haughty eyes. A few carefully arranged wisps of gray hair peeped from beneath her coffee satin turban, and her long-sleeved, high-waisted gown was made of the same satin. She wore brown lace fingerless mittens, and there was a warm rose-and-white cashmere shawl around her shoulders.