Chapter Three

She felt her top teeth biting down on her bottom ones until they ached and then she stopped herself doing it.

‘I have told you that my aunt teaches classes for women of limited means. She teaches her pupils things that might help them rise up in life and in employment. These are not Society women, so to speak, but the daughters of gentlemen who have fallen on hard times.’

‘Of what do these lessons comprise?’

‘Book discussions. Conversation. Music. The art of gardening. The expectation of manners. All the things that might help a woman find her place.’

She saw him smile and frowned.

‘You think such an endeavour to be humorous?’

‘No, I think it admirable. Do you help with these classes too?’

Now she saw why he smiled. He thought her far from the demure and decorous example of womanhood she was describing, and it was the truth.

‘I do not. I am usually far too busy setting tongues wagging.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

That took her aback, though she did not pursue such a line of argument and went on with her own.

‘Miss Josephine Leggett became a student last year, and my aunt had high hopes for her future—until Mr Shawler saw her on the street in Portman Square and decided he liked the look of her. She is delicate and dainty and blonde, you see, and inclined to be bashful, timid and coy. All the things that men find most attractive in a woman.’

‘Some men,’ he qualified, before he allowed her to continue.

‘Unfortunately she sent him letters—unwise letters that held sentiments she should never have expressed so personally—and Mr Shawler has threatened to hold them against her unless she meets him...privately. My aunt found out, and we devised a plan to retrieve these unwise letters in the least visible way possible, thus putting a stop to any discourse between them and saving her reputation. Aunt Sarah was a friend of Shawler’s grandmother, and drew the map from her memory of visiting the house years ago.’

‘This map which shows the library upstairs as its end point?’

‘That is where Josephine swears her correspondence will be. Lord Shawler described a red box to her once, as the place where he keeps his most valuable mail, and she noted the description. He mentioned the library at the same time.’

‘You think this box will be just sitting there on a table for you to simply rifle through? Can you pick locks, Mrs Dalrymple? Would you be able to determine the complicated hiding places a man might use to secure important documents, should it come to that?’

He sounded angry, and she could understand his irritation. ‘I cannot and would not, my lord, but the least I can do is to try to find them—and that I shall endeavour to accomplish.’

‘And if Shawler catches you at your game?’

‘Then Josephine shall be as ruined as I am, but I shan’t go quietly.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I shall shout out about his dreadful moral baseness to anyone who might listen—and his house is very full tonight.’

‘And what if he hits you? What if he simply silences you in the first moment of discovery and bundles you up, to be taken somewhere so that you might never be found again?’

‘This is England, sir. Lords of the realm do not kidnap ladies of means—they merely seduce them.’

‘A man who attaches little importance to the word no is not one who will have a liking for semantics.’

She had to give him his due. Christopher Northwell had listened to all the things she had told him and he was a competent opponent.

‘If I don’t retrieve those letters Miss Leggett’s future will be gone and my aunt’s heart will be broken.’

She saw a muscle in his jaw grind along the line of his chin and his hands clench.

‘Then I will do it for you.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Give me the map and I’ll find the letters.’

Her aunt had told her not to trust him, and yet she found herself handing over the map and stepping back.

‘Let me come with you. I can help.’

North looked around, and she could tell he was thinking.

‘If anything happens I will deny you are involved, Mrs Dalrymple. You have to agree to this. If I am caught you will simply leave and say nothing of this to anyone at all. I will say you followed me.’

‘Why would you do this?’

‘Because my reputation is something I have no concern for, whereas yours...’

‘Is largely lost anyway.’

He smiled. ‘Believe me, there is a lot further to fall than the position you now stand in—even in a dress that needs another yard of cloth in it to be decent.’

‘You are a prude, my lord. This gown is hardly indecent.’ But she said it kindly.

‘And you are so impetuous I am wondering how you have managed to survive for so long in the most judgemental Society in all the world. God, its unfathomable—and damned worrying, too.’

Leaning forward, she kissed him—fully on the lips—and found in his shock a lack of control that she had not expected. He was beautiful and strong, and intimacy only underlined such a fact. He was a good man, too.

‘Tit for tat, Mrs Dalrymple. I shall owe you one.’

He drawled this as she stepped away.

‘One what?’

‘A kiss. In a far more private setting. A place where I can kiss you back.’

For the first time in all her life Ariana blushed, hard and true. She felt the burn of it cross her cheeks and move down to the bare skin of her throat.

Checkmate. King to Queen. Captured. Startling.

Her world had shifted—because never before had she been the one to make the first move, to want such intimacy and to yearn for more on completion.

The frozen core of her was rearranging itself and melting, and her surprise was so complete she merely stood there as he moved to the door.

‘Are you coming?’

His question released her from the trance and she followed him, the music in the salon disappearing into quietness, the rows of family portraits on the walls following her with their eyes.

Finally they came to the library, and North shut the door and turned to the desk.

‘A red box, you say?’

She nodded, listening all the time for noises outside and watching as he searched.

He used a short piece of wire that he brought out from his jacket pocket to open the locks of all the drawers in the desk. She wondered what sort of a man might carry such a tool. Her own preparation for retrieving the letters was woefully inadequate.

‘There isn’t any box here.’

He looked around and walked behind the desk, his hands searching the solid wall with paintings hung upon it. He found a hole behind the third portrait, revealing the front of a dark steel door bolted before them.

‘Can you open it?’

‘I can—but Shawler will know it’s been tampered with. Once I have it open I won’t be able to close it’

Within a few seconds he had the lock released and was extracting the red box and pushing it towards her. The three letters from Josephine were on the top of a pile of others, and she placed them in her reticule. After she had done so the Earl removed a card embossed with his name from his top pocket and tossed it onto one corner of the desk.

‘You will leave that there?’

‘I have always found attack is more disconcerting than defence.’

‘Why would you do this? Take the blame?’

‘Because Shawler is an immoral bastard who needs reining in, and because even as the reluctant heir to a dukedom my voice will be heard. Now we just have to get out of here—because a scene tonight with all these people present would be unfortunate.’

Ariana could barely believe he would do this—risk his own name for the protection of an unknown and indiscreet woman—and yet she found herself unable to refuse the offer.

She quietly moved behind him along the corridor and onto the stairs. Just before the landing they heard footsteps, and with nowhere to hide Christopher Northwell suddenly pulled her into his arms and kissed her—hard, this time—as if he meant it, and as if their life depended on the outcome. Which to a certain extent she supposed it did. It was no quiet pretend kiss, but a full and sensual demand of her body, with his tongue dispensing of any resistance.

A loud exclamation drew them apart and Andrew Shawler stood there, looking furious.

‘If we had wanted guests up here we would not have placed a braided rope across the stairs, Norwich.’

North was not deterred.

‘Which is precisely why I am in the only private space in the whole house.’

‘You would risk further scandal, North, with a woman who is already tainted by it?’

The insult was specific, she knew. There was history between the two men—that much was obvious—but Ariana could not understand the underlying tension. A secret, she supposed, and one that bound them somehow. Both looked furious.

When the Earl turned to her and wished her goodnight she was astonished—and even more astonished when he bowed slightly and then disappeared with Shawler down the long corridor.

With little else to do, she returned to the main salon and found her cloak and hat, requesting a servant to call for a hackney to transport her home.

The events of the night had been surprising, and she could make no sense of any of them. Still, she had Josephine Leggett’s unwise correspondence, and her aunt would be thrilled at the outcome.

She hoped with all her might that the Earl was not being set on by the obnoxious Shawler and his cronies right at this very moment—though in all honesty he looked like a man who could well deal with it.

North was glad when she left, and glad when he looked back and saw no sight of her. Once downstairs she would be safe, and he hoped like hell that she would have the good sense to call a conveyance and leave immediately.

He’d seen the small blade Shawler had in his pocket. The outline of steel against superfine was unmistakable. And he knew that, short of creating a scene that would draw attention, he had no recourse but to do exactly as Shawler wanted.

He had always known it would come to this, from the moment he had left for the Americas, with Anna’s broken words at the river ringing in his ears.

Hell. That day drew back upon him—the coldness, the fear, the shock...

At the door that led into the library he pulled back. He needed to give Ariana Dalrymple time to leave, and he thought it wise to buy himself some time too.

‘What’s all this about, Shawler? I can see you are armed.’ Better to confront him head-on and see where the conversation led. ‘This is a ball, and as the host you are presumably needed downstairs.’

‘The widow Dalrymple is no lady, North. You would do well to stay away from her.’

‘Why?’

‘Her baseness leads her to protect prostitutes and ladies of the night. She harasses every man who enjoys them.’

‘Including you?

‘Her husband was ancient. She married him for his money.’

‘Something many women in society would applaud her for.’

‘After he died she sought comfort in the arms of others. She is a woman who is...immoral and bitter.’

North held up his hand. ‘For old times’ sake I will take your advice without rancour, but I don’t want to hear any more. Do you understand?’

As they gained the library it took only a moment for Shawler to register the open door in the wall, the painting propped up beneath it, and the calling card upon the desk.

‘Mrs Dalrymple was most adamant that three of the letters you kept in your red box were hers. She said something about blackmailing a vulnerable young woman who attends her aunt’s school for ladies down on their luck, I think.’ He paused as that sank in before continuing, ‘If I were you, Shawler, I’d find another lock and then return downstairs without a fuss and count myself lucky that such ungentlemanly behaviour ends here.’

Shawler swore and leaned against the desk, his countenance ruddy and defeated. A deflated bully with sweat on his brow.

‘You saw me that day at the river, didn’t you? You saw me kiss Anna Charleston. She thought you didn’t love her enough and she told you so.’

‘Goodnight, Andrew. My advice to you would be to cut your losses and leave Miss Josephine Leggett alone.’

He turned then, and simply walked away. Away from this house and Andrew Shawler and from memories that made no sense but were engraved with pain. There was nothing left to say. Secrets did that—they burned into flesh and ate at certainty, and he did not wish them to do so for a moment longer.

Downstairs, Seth caught up with him and shoved a drink into his hand.

‘You look as if you might need this. I saw Mrs Dalrymple leave.’

‘Good.’

‘You wanted her to go?’

‘Can I ask you a question, Seth?’

‘Of course.’

‘How long did it take you to realise that Pamela Charleston should be your wife?’

‘The first time she smiled at me I knew.’

North raised his glass. ‘To wives,’ he said, and swallowed the lot. ‘And to truth.’

‘You’ve changed in five years, North.’

‘I have had to.’

‘Your father is old. Don’t leave it too late to make peace with him. He was heartbroken after your mother’s passing.’

With care, North placed his empty crystal glass down on the silver tray of a passing servant.

‘Age does not always bring wisdom.’

‘I know that,’ Seth said, shaking his head, ‘but it can bring regrets.’

Leaving the Shawler house, North summoned his conveyance, which was waiting twenty or so yards down the street. When he threw himself in he was astonished to find Ariana Dalrymple there, shrouded in her dark woollen cloak, watching him.

‘I sent my hackney on and crept in here while your driver was busy. I am good at being unseen.’

‘A handy skill, that.’

‘Not quite as handy as picking locks or drawing the enemy off his quarry. Not as honourable, either.’

‘I’ve never been a saint, Mrs Dalrymple.’

‘It isn’t a saint that I need.’

‘What is it you do need, Aria?’

‘To say thank you. For your help. I would not have regained the letters without you.’

She stayed in her corner, sheathed in wool, giving him the distinct impression that she did not wish for him to touch her. Outside it was snowing. He noticed that with surprise, for it had not been snowing a moment ago, and it was a while since he had seen such weather.

‘Was Miss Anna Charleston as kind and as beautiful as her sister?’ asked Ariana.

‘Yes.’

‘Her death must have been quite a loss, then. To you.’

He stayed quiet.

‘When my husband died I was nothing but thankful. At least your memories are happy ones. That is a comfort, I would expect.’

‘Expectations are sometimes slippery things.’ He couldn’t believe he had said that.

‘You searched for hours in a cold river, according to my aunt’s recollections, and suffered with pneumonia afterwards. A high price to pay if it was not for true love.’

‘Andrew Shawler was there at the river.’

More words that were not meant to be said. A new confession that he had never given anyone before.

‘He kissed her, and she kissed him back. I saw them before she disappeared.’

‘People make mistakes. People do things that they wish they had not all the time. Yet one should not die for a dalliance.’

The hat Ariana wore had slipped, leaving one long feather at a jaunty angle across her hair, and the odd, mismatched cloak suited her colouring more and more as he looked at it.

Mrs Dalrymple was a woman of shadows, strength and depth, all topped with a beauty that was undeniably potent. She was unlike anyone else he had ever known. Original. Honest. Direct.

‘Did Shawler know you had observed them?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I see. But you never chastised him publicly?’

‘The Charleston family did not need scandal on top of their grief.’

She smiled. ‘And it takes so very little to set this Society agog.’

‘A lot less than burning a house down, at least.’

‘Or marrying a man forty years your senior.’

‘Did you love him at all? The ancient Mr Dalrymple?’

Shaking her head, she looked out of the window. ‘No, I did not. But my parents loved his fortune.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Seventeen. Just.’

‘How long were you married?’

‘Two years. Mr Dalrymple succumbed to the same congestion of the chest my parents had, and through the haze of it all the only hope I could see was freedom—which I have used to the best of my ability.’

‘The series of lovers you are renowned for?’

‘Two of them—and both disappointing.’

He laughed because he could not help it, this truth having been given with such directness. ‘I can see why men of sense hold an admiration for you, Mrs Dalrymple. You are nothing at all like the simpering, clueless ladies they are used to.’

‘Well, I try not to lie...’

‘And you are not afraid of the truth?’

‘Money allows one the choice of being frank, I suspect.’

‘A weapon you use like a knife?’

‘A rusty blade, given my age and situation. I have not welcomed anyone into my bed for years, despite what is said about me.’

‘Is that a challenge?’

Unbelievably, she blushed again. Even in the dark he could see the rush of blood and the shake of her head.

‘You have a gaggle of beauties falling at your feet—young women of kind and moral nature who would make comfortable life companions. And after your problems in the past...’ She stopped momentarily. ‘You seem like a man who might welcome peace.’

The conveyance had halted at the corner of Portman Square now, and the moon above them was full.

‘Shawler won’t bother you again,’ he said.

He saw her glance at his hands.

‘I didn’t hit him.’

She smiled.

‘I searched the river for Anna for so many hours because I felt guilty.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of a lack of love, I suppose. For her. She knew it, too. Her last words, shouted at me through the wind, said as much.’

‘A fact that explains her unwise kiss with Shawler, perhaps? People can surprise you with their truth.’

‘You surprise me, Ariana.’

He did not touch her as he said this, but something leapt between them. An understanding and a beginning.

He would have liked to draw her into his arms, but she looked distant and untouchable, caught in her own thoughts across the night, pledged to her freedom.

The lights were on at the Portman Square townhouse and two men had come out to greet them, opening the door before his own servants could and helping her out.

‘Goodnight and thank you, my lord. It was a lovely evening and one I shall never forget.’

He saw her hand steal to her reticule, where he knew she had secreted the letters.

‘Lovely?’ he echoed, and thought of all the words she might have chosen, with this one the most unsatisfactory.

He watched her walk away, her cloak billowing in the breeze, her breath white on the cold of winter air. Upstairs a curtain flickered. Her aunt, he supposed. At least there was someone close to Ariana Dalrymple who would wait up to see her safe. That thought was comforting.

Ariana lay in bed and gazed at the bouquet that Christopher Northwell had given her at the beginning of the night. A winter bouquet.

The pungent smell of pine needles filled her bedroom. Strong and distinctive. Like the Earl himself. Untamed and unexpected. The bay held its own earthy tones, and the holly leaves shone waxed green under candlelight.

A Christmas composition, born in the cold and impervious to it. No small fragile flowers here, to wrinkle and curl in the frost. No, these specimens of greenery were sturdy, solid and resilient—as he had had to be, probably, banished to the Americas and away from all that was familiar.

She liked him. Which was unusual. More normally she found men annoying, cloying and difficult. But Christopher Northwell was none of those things. He had helped her retrieve the letters and protected her in a room full of people who had little reason to be kind.

Breathing in, she kept very still. Her heart was beating in the same fashion that it had before she’d kissed him—she could hear the quiet thump of it in the semi-darkness. But everything was different. For the first time in a long while she felt alive and excited, with all the possibilities she had thought long gone returned in one single night in the company of the enigmatic Earl of Norwich.

Her aunt had been waiting up for her when she’d returned, her thick dressing gown buttoned to the throat and her hair winding down her back in a long white braided plait. Ariana had felt her relief as she’d dispatched Josephine’s letters into her waiting hands.

‘How did you manage this, Aria?’ Disbelief had been in her every word.

‘With help. The Earl picked the lock on the door behind which they were hidden and left his own calling card on the desk.’

‘Why?’

‘I think he is a good man, Aunt Sarah, and there is also past business between Shawler and himself that demands recompense.’

‘He told you this?’

‘Yes.’

‘A trustworthy man, then?’

‘I think so. He has asked us both to Stevenage for a few days, the day after tomorrow. He wants to show us around.’

‘Intriguing...’

‘Why?’

‘Because he is estranged from his father, by all accounts.’

‘Well, perhaps he wishes for better relations between them and he needs us as a buffer? Will you come, Aunt Sarah?’

‘Of course I will. I would not miss the chance to see the remodelled estate in all its glory for the world.’

Ariana smiled at the memory and reached out to the green waxed leaves of the holly, careful not to touch the wavy margins tipped with spines. No one had ever given her a bouquet before, and this one was so much more beautiful than the normal flimsy posies of indeterminate hue.

No one had ever kissed her as he had, either, but she shook that thought aside, because she could not understand where all this was leading.

She remembered the Honourable Mr Henry Dalrymple and shuddered. The few times he had come to her bed had been distasteful and frightening. The two lovers she had taken after he had died had been no better. Oh, granted, they had been younger, but the act of intimacy had held only horror for her and she had sent them on their way as quickly as she could, furious at herself for even imagining that such contact might help.

Four acts of lovemaking in all the years of her life. Two under the oppressive mantle of a distasteful marriage and the other two quick and forgettable things that had held no emotion whatsoever.

‘The Wayward Widow’ Mrs Dalrymple was a misnomer. But she had encouraged it because it meant men were wary of her, and she was not constantly swatting them off as she’d had to do when first she had come back to London from the north.

Turning over, she looked at the ceiling. The ornate sculptured rose that held the small chandelier made her smile. At least this house was hers, and she had money enough to live comfortably for the rest of her life. Marriage had given her that.

It had been a poor bargain, though—forced upon her by her mama and papa, who had seen her as the way out of their modest means and taken it. She had been unresisting and docile, because there had seemed no other alternative, and they had been clever in their bargaining.

Dresses. Houses. Furniture and carriages... She could barely remember the young, impressionable girl who had thought those things so important that she had sacrificed her future for them.

When her husband and her parents had died two days apart six years ago, in the coldest winter of living memory, she had not shed a tear. She had buried them with respect and decorum, and then she had sold up and departed—all the dresses and horses and furniture gone with the house, left behind. Accoutrements of a life that had been a lie.

She had taken nothing with her save her resolve never to be beholden to anyone again.