and carpets threadbare. Windows were broken and the roof needed mending, and the garden was overgrown with a wild tangle of weeds. Life was a constant struggle and Louisa fought a never-ending battle with tradesmen and shopkeepers alike, stripping the house of several valuables which were not of sentimental worth and pieces of furniture to pay them.
All this had caused something to harden inside Louisa, to die, even. The lessons since her parents’ demise had been hard and she had learned them well, knowing she could expect little support from James as he went on his merry way unhindered. She had learned to deal with relentless adversity, to hide her disappointment in her brother and her fear for the future, and to hold her head high. And because of the time she spent alone at Bierlow Hall, making decisions and being responsible for others, she had acquired an independence of attitude and spirit.
But, despite James’s neglect of duty, Louisa understood him and loved him well, and would forgive him almost anything. Whenever he came down to Bierlow Hall to placate her, he would leave her a little money he had won at the tables, promising her that the day would soon come when he would make his fortune and bring her to London and find her a husband who would be worthy of her, before rushing off back to town.
Louisa would listen calmly, knowing this would never happen, and was resigned to remain at Bierlow Hall in semi-isolation for ever. The only luxury she permitted herself was her books, for it was only in these that she could find solace and escape from the daily concern of money.
Fleet Street, with its bookshops, printing establishments and coffee-houses, was a popular area for writers and poets. As always, it was crowded with journalists and salesmen, with newsboys running up and down carrying the latest broadsheets. Louisa kept close to the wall, for often it was difficult to walk in the streets, congested with draymen, hackneys and other hazards, without fear of injury.
She had come here once before when she had been in London and she remembered how she had loved the bustle of the busy street. Finding herself in front of Mr Brewster’s shop, the familiar sign above the door framed in iron and hanging out on a long bracket, vying with all the others along the street—and it was not unheard of for any one of them to fall down, to the danger of pedestrians—she entered the shop, where the smell of ink, paper and leather-bound books assailing her nostrils was surprisingly pleasant.
Like many other establishments, Mr Brewster’s shop stocked items other than books; book-selling alone was rarely sufficient to make a prosperous living. His shop was much frequented by scholars, who were able to afford the wide range of cheap, second-hand books he had on sale.
Several gentlemen in flamboyant wigs and brightly coloured frock coats were examining the books lining the shelves and paid her scant attention. Journals and pamphlets were stacked in piles on the floor, while books ranging from classics, educational, drama, romance, prose and many more filled the shelves.
Mr Brewster was unpacking some pamphlets and looked up when she entered, smiling brightly. She told him which book she wanted by William Collins and he frowned, evidently thinking hard as he rubbed his whiskery chin with ink-stained fingers.
“Let me see—I should have a copy somewhere. You browse, my dear, while I have a look in the back.”
Louisa did as he told her as he disappeared into the back of the shop, happy to wander among the narrow aisles crammed with books on dusty shelves. She examined books by Fielding and Defoe with avid interest, having read all of them, then took Clarissa, a book written by Samuel Richardson that was a particular favourite of hers, from the shelf. She had read it several times and agonised over poor Clarissa Harlowe’s fate on finding herself in the clutches of her abominable persecutor, Lovelace.
So lost was she in the print as she flicked through the well-thumbed pages that she was not aware that someone had come to stand beside her until he spoke.
“Why, Miss Divine. This is a surprise.”
Louisa looked up, amazed to find herself looking into a pair of familiar, vivid blue eyes. So abrupt was his appearance, and so unexpected, that her heart lurched, disbelief mingled with surprise holding her immobilised for a split second. Her first instinct was to turn on her heels and run, but her feet were firmly rooted to the spot, and, besides, he blocked her one way of escape. Immediately there was a resurgence in her of that frightening awareness of his vitality and magnetism that had affected her at Bricknell House when their eyes had met for the first time. He seemed to have set the whole atmosphere inside Mr Brewster’s bookshop vibrating.
“L-Lord Dunstan! Do forgive me—you startled me,” she stammered, her cheeks overspread with a deep flush, unable to prevent a picture of him and the unpleasantness of the previous evening from flashing through her mind. She felt overwhelmed by his close presence and he seemed to invade every part of her, but somehow she kept her head. She observed that he was as immaculately dressed as he had been at Lady Bricknell’s party, and she could not help noticing how black became him and how his pristine white cravat had been tied with a master’s hand.
“I apologise. I did not mean to,” he said, having recognised her instantly, even though she did not remotely resemble the young woman he had encountered at Lady Bricknell’s the previous evening.
He looked at her intently, startled once more by her beauty, finding himself looking into two warm and wonderfully expressive amber eyes flecked with yellow, opened wide in her heart-shaped, strikingly lovely face, her skin creamy, flawless and glowing with health, with an aureole of strawberry-blonde hair falling in a luxurious, shining tumble over her shoulders. Ever since he had first seen her he had wanted her, and meant to have her, her face never drifting from his mind’s eye.
“Mr Fraser is suffering no ill effects after last night, I hope?” he enquired in a bored, matter-of-fact way, as if it were of no consequence that James had lost his entire fortune to him.
Anger seared through Louisa like a hot knife at the lightness with which he spoke, but her pride forbade her to tell him of the devastation his game of cards with James had brought them. With a superhuman effort she managed to smile sweetly up at him.
“It is not the first time James has lost at cards, Lord Dunstan, and I am quite certain it will not be the last.”
“You have known each other long, Miss Divine—you and Mr Fraser?”
Louisa cringed when he addressed her as Miss Divine, thinking it a silly name and quite ridiculous, but a peculiar instinct born and bred in her told her not to let him know she was James’s sister. Let him continue to think she was his paramour; it was of no concern to her.
“Yes—quite some time,” she answered.
“And Sir Charles Meredith? It would appear you have an admirer in that gentleman. Do you know him well?”
“Why, no. In fact I do not know him at all. We had not met before last night,” Louisa told him. She saw that he was watching her closely, giving her the distinct impression that he was more concerned with how well she knew Sir Charles than how close she was to James, and making her wonder once again what could have happened to cause so much dislike between himself and Sir Charles Meredith. But she pushed the matter away, telling herself that no matter how unpleasant the situation might be that existed between the two men, it was their business and had absolutely nothing to do with her. She had troubles enough of her own without bothering her head about that.
Alistair nodded slightly. “I see. Then if, as you say, he is a stranger to you, take my advice and be very careful before becoming better acquainted with him. Do not allow yourself to be taken in by him. Oh, he can be charming and persuasive, I grant you, but he is not what he seems.”
Louisa
