to anyone else within hearing, ‘Believe me, Adam Davenant is no gentleman!’ But that would simply make poor Matt even more anxious; so instead she retorted, ‘Matt, I’m a twenty-seven-year-old widow and, as you see, I’m at no risk whatsoever in a neighbourhood like this. There is absolutely no need for you to stay. Besides,’ she added in a moment of inspiration, ‘Gabby will be expecting you. You promised her you’d fix that loose counter in the workshop today, remember?’
As she spoke she was horribly conscious that halfway down Clarges Street a couple of liveried footmen stood on the steps of the biggest house of them all, gossiping in the sun. She’d been aware for some time that the footmen were staring in her direction and felt newly embarrassed by the scruffy equipage and the presence of loyal Matt in his ancient greatcoat and battered hat.
‘Won’t you want escortin’ home afterwards, ma’am?’ frowned Matt.
‘I shall walk,’ Belle announced. ‘I shall enjoy the fresh air.’
‘But …’
Just then the door handle fell off again; she kicked it under the carriage. ‘Matt!’ she hissed. ‘Please—just go!’
Matt, his burly visage expressive, heaved himself back on to the driving seat. Belle found herself urging his departure under her breath rather frantically. Then, lifting her head high, she set off down Clarges Street. The footmen watched her as she drew nearer.
She knew it. She knew, before she reached them.
They were outside Adam Davenant’s house. They were his footmen. Oh, drat and botheration. And they had seen everything; the ancient carriage, Matt, herself kicking the blasted door handle out of sight …
They had sprung to attention, stiff-faced, their arms straight at their sides, but Belle had seen a hint of malicious humour in their eyes.
‘Is this Mr Davenant’s house?’ she asked crisply.
‘This is Mr Davenant’s residence—ma’am.’
‘Then I wish to speak to him, if you please. And before you ask, I have not an appointment, though I have written to him twice informing him that—that it is in his interests to see me.’
The footman’s lips pursed. ‘Mr Davenant happens to have company.’
‘Then I will wait.’
The impudent scoundrel almost sniffed. ‘Very well, madam. I will take you to await Mr Davenant’s convenience.’
‘But …’ Belle bit her lip. She didn’t exactly have a choice, did she? He held the door open; she sailed inside.
Oh, my. This place was incredible. Her entire shop would fit inside this lofty hallway, with its huge chandeliers and sweeping staircase. Money from mining and quarrying, she reminded herself steadily. Money from other men’s back-breaking toil.
The footman—who she reckoned might stop breathing soon if he lifted his nose any higher in disdain—ushered her along the vast hallway to a room that led off it, pointed her inside, then disappeared, closing the door rather firmly on her as he left.
She was too agitated to notice much, beyond the fact that she could hear the sounds of loud male talk and laughter from upstairs. Would the sneering footman trouble to deliver her message? Would the hateful Mr Davenant even bother to leave his rowdy companions and grant her a few minutes’ audience? She paced to and fro. This had to be one of her stupidest ideas ever.
Suddenly she heard a man’s bellow of rage from out in the hallway, then the pattering of feet and the sounds of a girl sobbing. Just as she turned towards the door it burst open and a young maidservant tottered in, clearly in a state of some distress. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
The maid saw Belle. ‘Oh! I beg pardon, miss, I’m sure!’ Knuckling the tears from her eyes, the girl was already turning to hurry away, but Belle grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘What is it, my dear?’
The girl, in her white cap and apron, was shaking. ‘Nothin’. It’s nothin’, miss …’ She hurried out again into the hall, Belle following. But the girl stopped with a low cry when she saw, from the other direction, an extravagantly dressed, fair-haired man prowling towards her with an unpleasant smile on his face. ‘Now, what’s all this, missy?’ he said to the cowering maid. ‘I thought we were having a pleasant conversation. Not trying to run from me, are you?’
This time it was Belle who let out a gasp of shock. She knew this smooth-tongued aristocrat whom some would call handsome. Her stomach clenched. Dear God, if this man was a friend of Davenant’s, things were even worse than she’d thought.
Belle said to the young maid quickly, ‘I will see to this. Go, now.’ The maid scurried off, still sobbing. The man lurched closer—clearly he had been drinking, she could smell it. He was staring down at her. ‘By God. Mrs Marchmain. Well, isn’t this a happy coincidence?’
Belle held her chin high. Loathsome, loathsome man. ‘Not for me, Lord Jarvis, I assure you.’
At first Jarvis scowled. ‘I see your pride is still as damned lofty as ever …’ Then he began to laugh—a bitter, ugly sound. His pale blue eyes were assessing her greedily. ‘Hold a minute. Now, let me think. Here you are, in Davenant’s house—can it be that my money wasn’t enough to tempt you, but Davenant’s is?’
He laid his hand on her shoulder and let it slide to her breast. Belle’s stomach heaved as she knocked it away.
‘You disgust me, my lord,’ she breathed. ‘You did when we last met and not a thing has changed—’
‘What the deuce is going on?’
The man’s voice came from the wide staircase above them. Jarvis jumped away from Belle and looked up angrily at the speaker. ‘Davenant. Damn it, I’d no idea you were there …’
Belle looked up, too. And with this second shock she felt so dizzy that her ribs ached with the need for air. No. Impossible. Please …
The newcomer scarcely glanced at her. It was on Jarvis that his iron gaze rested as he came steadily down the stairs; he was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the sober perfection of black tailcoat and pristine white neckcloth.
He said to Jarvis, ‘I thought you were on your way out a while ago.’
‘And so I was,’ declared Jarvis furiously. ‘Until I was delayed, by an encounter with this woman here.’
‘Not true,’ breathed Belle.
‘Oh, it is true. She insulted me, Davenant, damn it!’
Belle thought she’d been prepared for almost anything. But not for the fact that Adam Davenant, her brother’s enemy, was the man on Sawle Down into whose ears she’d poured insult after insult.
Desperate hope rose in her breast. He might not remember me. He might not recognise me …
Lord Jarvis did though, all too well; Jarvis was still glaring at her, and to him she said as steadily as she could, ‘You claim I insulted you, Lord Jarvis. All I did was tell you to stop pursuing that serving girl because you were frightening her out of her wits.’
