though Martin had suggested something unspeakably vulgar. ‘I never take spirits after eleven. It upsets my constitution.’ She billowed to her feet. ‘I merely wish to add that if Miss Davencourt and Miss Clara do not reform—and quickly!—I shall be taking my services elsewhere. There are plenty of young ladies who would be glad to have my chaperonage and would not cause me one moment’s anxiety. I am much in demand, you know!’
Martin felt panic and irritation stirring in equal measure. The thought of losing Mrs Lane, humourless as she was, was terrifying. He would never find another reputable lady willing to chaperon Kitty and Clara about town, not in the middle of the Season when the girls had a reputation for being so difficult. His sister Araminta had had to work very hard to persuade Mrs Lane in the first place. The chaperon had implied that a house with seven children and lacking the steadying hand of a mistress must surely be a hotbed of wickedness, and now his half-sisters were proving precisely that. Martin ran his hand through his hair.
‘Please do not leave us, Mrs Lane. You have done such a splendid job so far.’ He could hear the insincerity in his own voice.
‘I will think about it,’ the chaperon said graciously. ‘Of course, if you think that I have done such a splendid job, Mr Davencourt, you might consider reflecting that fact in my fee…’
Martin could feel the screws of blackmail turning. Only the previous week he had been obliged to increase the wages he paid to his younger brother’s tutor to prevent him from handing in his notice. Then the governess had threatened to leave after his younger sisters filled her bed with stewed apple. It only required the nursemaid to resign and he would have a full house.
He held the door open for Mrs Lane. ‘I shall see what I can do, madam. In the meantime, be assured that I will speak to both Kitty and Clara—’
‘Martin!’ A plaintive voice floated down from the staircase. Daisy was sitting halfway up the stair, swinging her feet through the delicate iron tracery of the banisters. She was clutching her teddy bear and looked tiny and dishevelled. Daisy was five years old and a late child, the result of Mr and Mrs Davencourt’s last, ill-fated attempt at reconciliation. Martin hurried up the stairs to scoop her up into his arms, and felt the fierce heat of her tears against his shirt.
‘I had a bad dream, Martin,’ his youngest sister hiccupped. ‘I dreamed that you went away and left us for ever and ever—’
Martin smoothed his hand over her hair. ‘Hush, sweetheart. I am here now and I promise never to go away—’
The nursemaid came hurrying along the landing, a candle clutched in her hand, a wrap thrown hastily over the nightdress. Her eyes were full of sleep and anxiety. She held her arms out.
‘Now then, Miss Elizabeth, what’s going on here? Come back to bed.’
Daisy clung to Martin with the tenacity of a limpet, winding her fat little arms about his neck. ‘I want Martin to put me to bed and tell me a story!’
Martin thought longingly of the huge glass of brandy as yet unpoured in the library and the pristine newspaper he had not even unfolded. But the nursemaid’s look was pleading.
‘If you would be so good, sir…Miss Elizabeth has been having so many nightmares lately and I am sure she will sleep better if you tuck her up.’
Down in the hall Mrs Lane was still watching him with a look of cupidity in her sharp grey eyes. Her expression reminded Martin of a hunting cat closing in on the kill. He felt anger and helplessness in equal measure. He turned away deliberately, pressing a kiss on Daisy’s tumbled fair curls.
‘Come along then, sweetheart. I will tell you the story about the Princess and the Pea.’
Daisy snuggled up to him. Her warmth comforted him. When the terrible news of their parents’ death had reached him the previous year, he had been stunned and appalled. The late Mr and Mrs Davencourt lived for most of the time in a state of armed neutrality towards each other, barely spending any time together. It had been ironic in the extreme that they had died together in a fire at their London house. Philip Davencourt had been a staunch Tory who had deplored his son’s Whiggish tendencies, but for all their political disagreements, father and son had had a healthy respect for each other and Martin knew that his father had been proud of him when he had been appointed to Castlereagh’s delegation at the Congress of Vienna. The only thing that his father had disapproved of was Martin’s failure to marry.
Perhaps his father had had a point, Martin thought ruefully, as he carried Daisy back to the nursery. A man who had seven younger half-brothers and half-sisters to care for needed help and a far more permanent relationship than the transient affairs that he had been accustomed to in the past. Not only that, but in future he would need a wife to act as political hostess as well.
He held Daisy close. His sister Araminta, the only other child of his father’s first marriage, had argued that the younger girls should go to live with her when their parents had died. Martin had been tempted, but in the end he had decided against it. He might only be thirty-one years old, he might have no wife to support him, but that was as nothing compared to the powerful sympathy he felt towards his younger siblings. They had endured enough misery over the death of their parents and he would not be responsible for separating them now. They stayed with him and he did the best he could for them. But he needed a wife.
Juliana lay in her huge canopied bed and watched the play of shadows across the wall. The house was completely silent. Even in the daytime there were no children to spoil the peace and nothing to disrupt the almost sepulchral silence. Juliana lived entirely alone, with no companion to give her countenance and to quell the tongues of the gossips. She had chosen it that way, declaring that to live with some tedious poor relation would make her run mad.
Juliana rolled over on to her side and pressed her cheek against the cool pillow. She felt hot with the effort of repressing her tears and angry because she did not understand why she wanted to cry, except that it had something to do with Martin Davencourt. She thumped her pillow. How maudlin could a person be? She had everything she could possibly want, so there was no reason to be sad.
Remembering a game she had played when she was a child, Juliana tried to enumerate the reasons why she should be happy.
One. She had money—enough money to buy anything she wanted and to gamble the rest away. Her father, whilst deploring her behaviour, was quick enough to spare her financial embarrassment, so she need never worry that she would go without.
Two. Tomorrow Andrew Brookes was marrying Eustacia Havard and she was invited to the wedding. That gave her a purpose, something to do, a reason to get out of bed. She would not be bored tomorrow. She would not even be lonely, for she would be surrounded by people. Juliana felt slightly better at the thought. Her misery receded slightly. This was a good game.
Three. She was beautiful and she could have any man that she wanted. Juliana frowned. Instead of making her feel better, the thought engendered a slight chill. Firstly she had not met any man that she genuinely wanted. Armitage, Brookes, Colling…they were at her beck and call, as were countless others. But the truth was that she did not want to call them. Since the end of her disastrous marriage to Clive Massingham, she had been wary of love. She would not let it make a fool of her again.
Then there was Martin Davencourt. His stern face was before her still. Severe, upright, steady. She was not sure why she had wanted him. She did not even like him. He was everything that she usually dismissed in a man. Perhaps that was why she had decided to try to attract him. She had wanted to see if he was really as sternly honourable as he seemed. She had wanted to see
