Max was sitting alone in his library late one evening, making a pretence of reading – he’d been doing a great deal of that sort of thing lately, since an introspective mood had seized him and seemed reluctant to let him go – when his butler came to inform him, in a voice carefully stripped of all vestiges of human emotion, that there was a young woman at the door asking to see him with the utmost urgency.
This was a novelty even in his somewhat disordered life, and Max looked back at George Wicken thoughtfully. The elderly butler was someone who’d known him since childhood; who’d been there in attendance, in fact, on the momentous day nearly twenty years ago when he’d arrived from Martinique and stood trembling with Celestine in the chilly, intimidating marble-floored hall, cast adrift from everything he’d known into a new and terrifying existence. George was the perfect butler, never at a loss, but he was also a man of great integrity and compassion. If a ragged woman in desperate straits had come calling, she’d have left with a shilling for a lodging and probably something to eat, but if he’d thought she was a fraud or a criminal, she’d have gonewith a flea in her ear and an injunction never to return. Women of the town didn’t generally come boldly knocking on doors in Mayfair, and if they did, the masters of the houses didn’t have their evenings disturbed by hearing a word about it. Butlers existed, and were the best paid of servants, precisely to shield their employers from such vulgar matters. The very fact that Wicken felt duty-bound to tell him rather than dealing with the problem himself spoke volumes by itself. Could it possibly be…?
‘A young lady, perhaps,’ he suggested, setting down his book and hoping his face didn’t reveal the least trace of the complicated mixture of emotions that assaulted him in that moment. There was trepidation there, but pleasurable anticipation too, even though he couldn’t deceive himself for a moment that she – if in fact it was her, Allegra, Miss Constantine – had come to see him in such an unconventional and perilous manner simply because she burned for his touch and his company, as he burned for hers.
‘I should have said that she was, sir,’ Wicken answered superbly, ‘in other circumstances.’
‘I expect she is heavily cloaked?’ Max offered amiably. ‘Disguised, one might say?’
‘Yes, sir. That being so, I cannot venture as to make a guess at her dress or any other detail of her appearance, except to say that she is of diminutive stature, and labouring under a great deal of agitation.’
‘As well she might be, if she is who I think she is. I think you’d better show her in. And Wicken… no need to mention this matter to anyone else.’
George allowed a flicker of regret to show in his otherwise impassive countenance. ‘Unfortunately, sir, Thomas has seen her; the youngest footman, as you might possibly not recall.’ This in a tone that suggested Thomas to be far, far beneath his master’snotice, like some lowly insect. ‘But I dismissed him to go about his other duties, saying that I would deal with the impudent little hussy myself, without any need for his smirking assistance. I beg your pardon for the intemperate language, but it was apparent that some subterfuge was necessary, in order to convince Thomas that the young lady’s arrival was a mere inconvenience and a matter of no greater moment. Luckily, if I may say so, independent thought is not something I have known him indulge in. He is not, in my estimation, intelligent enough to be inquisitive.’
‘Thank you,’ Max said with sincere appreciation.
Wicken bowed regally, and absented himself, gliding away as if on invisible casters. A moment or two later he returned, ushering the cloaked and hooded visitor in, bowing once more before he exited and closing the door firmly behind himself without uttering another word. Whatever he thought privately of the evening’s events – and his employer could only conjecture – no instruments of torture would ever extract an indiscretion from him, still less a word or act of disloyalty. It was good to be reminded that he wasn’t quite alone in the world yet, even if he often felt he was.
Mr Severin rose politely, and watched as the small, mysterious figure took a few steps forward and pushed back her hood, in the best traditions of the stage, to reveal a lovely, stormy face. Of course it was her. It was disquieting, how glad he was to see her. He had painstakingly built up defences over the past few years, strong walls that kept out unwelcome emotion, but it seemed she brought them all tumbling down on him, so much useless rubble. And yetshewas the one who had appeared naked in front of him. Why did it feel as though the opposite were true?
Any self-protective thought he might have entertained of manufacturing some careless jape about how desperate Miss Constantine must be for his company, for the feel of his lips onhers and his hands on her body – desperate enough to risk scandal and disgrace by this highly imprudent visit – died on his lips as he saw her distraught expression. She was indeed in a highly agitated condition, as George had said, trying hard to conceal it and failing miserably.
‘What’s happened, Allegra?’ he asked abruptly. And then, ‘Sit down – I’ll pour you a drink. You look as though you need it.’
She subsided into the leather armchair he indicated, the twin to his own on the other side of the fireplace. He poured a small measure of fine old French brandy into a heavy crystal glass and took it across to her. Still she had not spoken a word. The effort of getting herself here and inveigling herself past his butler, into the house and this room – which was no mean achievement for a young woman who undoubtedly had never so much as walked along a London street alone before, let alone at night – seemed to have used up her strength for the moment. He let her be while she recovered her composure, dropping into the chair opposite her and trying not to stare, since that would hardly help matters. He knew she was about to tell him something that he would not enjoy hearing, very likely something that would disrupt a life that wasn’t in the best shape to begin with – but just now that didn’t seem to matter. He liked seeing her in his private sanctuary, whatever came of it afterwards. Although she did not belong here – that was patently absurd – he felt as though she did. And he might as well enjoy that sensation while he could, and cherish the memory afterwards.
She lifted her glass and drank, and then set it down with a decisive little clunk. ‘Mr Englishby is trying to blackmail me into his bed,’ she said baldly.
29
Allegra had never really stopped to consider before how restricted her life was, and how narrow her experience. It was only when she was obliged to make her way out of the house in secret and across a mile of unfriendly London streets that she realised: her previous existence had not prepared her to do so; had been designed, it almost seemed, to prevent her from even contemplating attempting such an outrageous thing.
In Surrey, at her father’s house, she could walk alone, through the fields and into the village. That was allowed. She’d done the same on Viola’s husband’s vast estate, and enjoyed the freedom of it. But she had never in all her nineteen years left the house alone in London, being accompanied always by her mother, her sisters and governess, or very occasionally one of the maids.
This inability to go anywhere by herself in the great dirty, dangerous city of close on a million people was as immutable a fact in the daytime as in the evening. And it wasn’t a restriction placed upon her by an unreasonable parent; no young lady would dream of doing such a thing in Town. It wasn’t clear to her if the streets really were highly unsafe for unaccompaniedfemales, or if it was a matter of a young lady’s virtue being so fragile that it must be guarded at all times, and seen to be guarded. She could not so much as go to return a library book, or buy a length of muslin by herself. She could not pay a call alone upon a friend, even; she would be obliged to go in a carriage with a maidservant or sibling.
Most of all, she could not visit a young unmarried gentleman at his home, or anywhere else, either in the light of day or during the hours of darkness. Her reputation, and that of her sisters, would be in tatters if anyone ever came to hear of her actions tonight. Probably they’d never recover, and their prospects would be blighted forever. Such an action, if discovered, would cause almost as much damage as would Mr Englishby’s allegations being spread abroad. This was bitterly ironic, just as though the world and all its inhabitants were in league against her.
But she had no choice, so she did not stop to contemplate the magnitude of what she was doing. Instead she waited with growing impatience until she was confident that everyone was asleep, and then slipped out by the area door, locking it and taking one of the big, heavy iron keys with her in her stupidly impractical little reticule, where it banged uncomfortable against her thigh as she hurried along, as if to remind her of the folly of her enterprise. Young women did not carry keys, or own them; the very idea was absurd, and the symbolism sufficiently obvious.
It was the longest mile she’d ever walked in her life, and seemed endless, like a panicked journey in a nightmare, when one ran and ran and got nowhere. She wasn’t sure, as she scurried along, if the quiet streets scared her more than the busy ones. When there was nobody visible but herself, the slightest sound – a footfall behind her, a slammed door, the sudden, agitated barking of a dog – set her looking over her shoulder in apprehension. But better-illuminated, busier thoroughfares, especiallyOxford Street when she came to it, harboured groups of men, and individuals lounging about their mysterious and probably disreputable business, and that was a worry too. Her heart was in her mouth the whole way.
There were women on the streets, of course, plenty of them, and she knew that at this hour some, perhaps most, must be streetwalkers. Prostitutes of the lowest order, with no option but to ply their trade out here in all weathers, regardless of the danger. Men, she supposed, would think that she was one of their number, or that she was in any case an unprotected female of low rank who could be approached with impunity. That must be so, they would reason, because she was alone. It made her legitimate prey. The injustice of such a notion could leave you breathless if you dwelt on it for too long. Society, which as far as Allegra could see was organised by and for the convenience of men, did not allow women of rank to go out alone, because it was not safe. Why was it not safe, for women of all classes? Because of men.
But she did not allow all this to overset her or deter her from her purpose; she could not afford to. She was fast, sure-footed and inconspicuous in her dark cloak, and she made her way to Mayfair without any more inconvenience than a few incomprehensible drunken shouts as she passed swiftly on. To be forced to consider herself lucky not to be molested in what was supposed to be the greatest and most civilised city in the world was also bitingly ironic, but there was no time to think of that now either.
She’d realised all along that Mr Severin’s butler would be her greatest obstacle, assuming she got that far. If he resolutely refused to admit her, she would have no choice but to reveal her identity, as a last resort. A well-trained servant could hardly be expected to take seriously a caller who refused to give her name and merely insisted on seeing his master while claiming without any shred of proof to be acquainted with him.
Rather to her surprise, it did not come to that. The tall, young footman who answered her knock looked her up and down insolently as soon as he laid eyes on her, and was clearly about to make some highly disagreeable remark regarding her respectability, but before he could do so an elderly butler appeared magically at his shoulder and sent him about his business with sharp efficiency. A second later she was waiting in the entrance hall, and almost before she had had a chance to look about her and calm the pounding of her heart by deep breathing, she was being ushered into Mr Severin’s library and left alone with him.
It was almost too easy. Again. Perhaps he was in the habit of receiving mysterious female visitors at all hours, and that was why the butler had not blinked when he saw her, nor made any attempt to bar her entrance. But she could not allow that disquieting thought to divert her.
Her unwitting host was coatless, and had at some earlier point in the evening pulled off his cravat and cast it carelessly aside; she could almost picture the impatience with which he must have done it. His stylish silk waistcoat was unfastened too, and his snowy white sleeves rolled up to show strongly muscled arms. His throat was entirely exposed, down to a vee that revealed a tantalising glimpse of his chest. Despite her agitation, she must always acknowledge how handsome he was, how endlessly appealing to her, even though she could also see that he was tired and not in the best of humours.
He jumped to his feet when she entered, as civility required, but he’d previously been lounging in a comfortable-looking leather armchair by the empty fireplace, a book, a glass and a half-empty decanter at his side. This was what she’d expected, presuming that she would be lucky enough to find him at home, which had always been a gamble. She’d been worried that he might be drunk and in no fit state to listen to her withunderstanding – somehow, she had a vague sense that young gentlemen spent a solid proportion of their time inebriated when not in genteel female company – but he didn’t seem to be. At any rate, he didn’t appear surprised to see her, having presumably already realised that his unexpected caller must be her, which argued for a certain level of alertness. And his first words showed that he was perfectly capable of gathering from her demeanour the fact that she had come on no light, trivial errand. He was prepared for trouble before she’d uttered as much as a syllable, and trouble was what she was bringing to his door. But he was involved already, and deserved to be told how matters stood, so she could not help it.
When she drew on the courage that had carried her here and told him the bare fact of Englishby’s blackmail, he cursed in some language she didn’t understand. ‘Tell me everything,’ he said.
