Nicola Cornick (8 page)

Alicia took a seat on one of the puffy sofas which had looked so elegant twenty years previously, but now were merely lumpy and uncomfortable. Since she had been manoeuvred into spending at least a little time at Greyrigg she would try to make it tolerable, though how she would manage this defeated her. She would have wished to avoid atête-à-tête with her father above all things. She watched his easy confidence as he moved to pour her a glass of Madeira, then helped himself to brandy from another decanter. He seemed completely at ease. Alicia could even hear him humming under his breath. She accepted her glass with a stiff word of thanks but could make no attempt to initiate conversation.

‘May I repeat what pleasure it gives me to see you once again at Greyrigg?’ Broseley began pompously, seating himself at a right angle to her and crossing his legs. ‘You have been too long away, Alicia.’

His shrewd grey eyes met hers with an expression of guileless innocence. Any daughter should have been moved by the paternal sentiments, but Alicia had learned in a hard school just how far he had her interests at heart.

‘My absence is hardly surprising,’ she said coldly.

‘A difference of opinion, perhaps…’ Broseley sounded vague, waving his hand in an indeterminate gesture of dismissal. He took a sip of his brandy, eyeing her over the rim of the glass. ‘I am sure that time must have gone a long way to healing the rift between us, and today we have a chance to further that process.’

Alicia almost gasped in disbelief. How could he assume that a reconciliation would be so simple? She set her glass down with a snap that made the delicate crystal shiver. This was intolerable. Her nerves were already on edge from the other events of the day and she felt utterly incapable of sustaining a travesty of politeness.

‘Let us be quite plain from the start, Father, and avoid any insincere sentimentality. It was my intention never to set foot in this house again and I am only here today because you suggested that it would be good for Annabella to spend the Season in London with me. As you know, I have always been anxious to re-establish my relationship with my sister.’

Broseley winced at such plain speaking but his daughter did not relent. She eyed him thoughtfully. ‘I am beginning to think that there
was more to your invitation, however. I do not see much urgency on Annabella’s part to be on her way!’

Broseley’s expression was one of hurt innocence. ‘My only other motive in inviting you here was an earnest wish to see you again, my dear Alicia!’

His daughter raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Come now, Father, do you expect me to believe that? Annabella may well wish for a Season in London, and you may well be pleased for her to go, but there is more to this than that! Do you take me for a complete fool?’ She bent over to pick up her reticule. ‘I have no wish to effect a reconciliation between us. If it is indeed your intention that Annabella have a Season, I suggest that you send a groom to find her and bring her back so that we may leave immediately. I asked for my carriage to be ready within the hour. If you do not want her to go with me, I will take my leave now.’

‘You are too hasty, my dear.’ Broseley looked pained at her lack of finesse, but managed to summon up a wintry smile. The light fell across his face as he leant towards her. He looked much thinner than Alicia remembered, for his face had lost a lot of its fullness and the portly figure—the result of years of good living—had become almost gaunt. Only the slate-grey eyes were as sharp as ever beneath their lowering brows and the mouth was a thin, cruel line. He steepled his fingers and spoke weightily.

‘I’ll allow that a Season in London for Annabella was the reason I gave to ask you here, and, of course, I wished to heal the breach between us. But as you are so perceptive, my dear Alicia, I’ll admit that there are other options which I wished to discuss with you.’

He paused, but Alicia remained silent, looking at him with nothing more than polite enquiry. It was as she had suspected. Bertram Broseley wanted something but he could never approach his objective directly. She was deeply distrustful, but it would be far safer to know his intentions now rather than to get an unpleasant surprise later on.

‘It was always my intention that Annabella should have the benefit of a Season in Town—as you did, my dear,’ Broseley was continuing, ‘but the little minx is hot to marry Francis St Auby, and pesters me night and day for my consent.’

Alicia raised her eyebrows, but managed to keep her tone neutral, revealing none of the agitation she was starting to feel. The suggestion of a Season for Annabella was looking more and more like an excuse—hence the lack of luggage and Annabella’s reluctance to make plans for departing. So where was all this leading?

‘Is it St Auby that Annabella is riding with today?’ she asked.

Broseley nodded. ‘It is. He is a reckless youth, but I can see that they would be well-matched. Annabella would like to join the accepted ranks of the local gentry and she and St Auby have much in common.’

‘And does this marriage have your blessing, Father?’

‘Not yet.’ Broseley looked secretive. ‘But it would be quite a good match for Annabella—she would like to be Lady St Auby—and besides, she wants Francis.’

‘I am sure that she wants both the man and the title,’ Alicia observed dryly. She knew Francis St Auby to be a handsome young man with an unsavoury reputation. She also remembered the St Auby family, and privately reflected that they must be desperate indeed to consider an alliance with Broseley when they had always considered him to be a jumped-up nobody. But poverty made for strange bedfellows and the St Aubys possessed endless debts as well as an old title and an overweening pride. Perhaps they had been consoled that Annabella’s grandfather had been an Earl and that her pedigree, on her mother’s side at least, was immaculate.

‘You know the St Aubys a little,’ Broseley was saying, in a conciliatory way so far removed from his usual manner as to be suspicious in itself. ‘What is your opinion of them?’

Alicia paused. ‘I should say that Francis St Auby is a dissolute youth and his father thinks of naught but his hounds and his women, no doubt in that order,’ she observed after a moment. ‘They have no money and are snobbish and small-minded. It amazes me that you are considering an association with the gentry, father. I thought that as a class you despised them.’

Broseley flushed angrily, but managed to shrug with an approach to nonchalance. His hatred of the aristocracy to which he had once aspired was notorious and his dislike of the landed gentry, amongst whom he had never been accepted, was almost as strong.

‘To tell the truth it was not my intention originally,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘But, as I said, Annabella is keen to have him.’ His gaze flicked over Alicia, and it was not kind. ‘She wishes to have a title to outrank yours, amongst other things.’

His taunt missed its mark, for Alicia only laughed. ‘That would not be difficult, poor Carberry being a mere knight! But a baronetage is scarcely more and Sir Frederick St Auby may live for years if he does not break his neck on the hunting field.’ She paused. ‘If you are willing to buy a title for Annabella, could you not make more sure of one? Or
buy a better one? Annabella would improve her chances immeasurably by coming to London with me. If I make it known she comes with a fat dowry she might even catch herself an Earl!’

It was a comment very close to the mark and Broseley held onto his temper with an effort. He had always considered his elder daughter to be a headstrong chit with a regrettable tendency to speak her mind. Annabella he understood, for she was very like him, but Alicia had always been a mystery to him. He knew that she was the image of her grandmother and that did her no service in his eyes. Of course, she was considerably older than when they had last met and no doubt possession of an independent fortune had only strengthened this deplorable attitude of self-assurance in her. He schooled his features to a semblance of pleasantness, and struggled to regain lost ground.

‘Come, come, we must not quarrel, you and I. After all, this is supposed to be a reconciliation! The truth is that Annabella and St Auby…’ He paused delicately. ‘Well, they are very close. They have already—’

‘Anticipated the pleasures of the marriage bed?’ Alicia finished for him sardonically. She was not particularly shocked, for she knew Francis St Auby’s reputation. Nor did Annabella seem concerned over her apparent fall from grace. ‘Is she expecting a child?’

‘No!’ Broseley snapped, abandoning subtlety in the face of his elder daughter’s outspokenness. ‘At least, she assures me that she is not! The little madam—she came and told me as bold as brass—’ He got a grip on himself and finished grudgingly, ‘You must see that it changes matters…I am obliged to agree to her demand that they wed!’

Alicia thought that she saw rather well. No doubt Broseley had mooted some arranged match for Annabella and her sister, preferring Francis’s undeniable attractions to some middle-aged libertine, had acted on her own plans rather than her father’s.

‘I am touched to see that you are more solicitous for Annabella’s happiness than you were for mine, sir,’ Alicia said smoothly. ‘But in what way does this paternal dilemma affect me?’

Broseley seemed not to notice her sarcasm.

‘I simply wanted to discuss my predicament with someone I could trust,’ he said with a plaintiveness that was so ludicrously uncharacteristic that Alicia almost laughed aloud.

‘And so you chose me?’ she said incredulously. ‘Pay me the compliment of believing me less gullible than that, sir! It seems that my sister has made her own decision! Francis St Auby’s attributes were clearly more attractive than a Season which could not guarantee a richer
prize! You knew that, but still you chose not to disabuse me! You used Annabella’s future as your excuse to bring me here—now, what was your true purpose—those other options to which you referred earlier?’

It never occurred to Bertram Broseley that some part at least of Alicia’s tenacity could only have been inherited from himself. He abandoned his attempt at pathos but still tried to pin on a friendly smile.

‘How very direct you have become, my dear!’ It was not a compliment. ‘Since we are being so matter-of-fact, I will not waste any more of your time! It occurred to me recently that we might be able to do business together, you and I. I know that you have considerable capital which could be invested wisely, were I to advise you. Or, alternatively, you might wish to consider marrying again. I have a business associate who is much taken with the idea of an alliance. It could be an advantageous financial match!’

Alicia’s overriding reaction to this crassly insensitive suggestion was blind fury. He evidently thought that, having benefited so handsomely from the forced marriage to Carberry, she would be willing to enter a second arrangement of her own free will!

‘I am surprised that you did not offer him Annabella!’ she said wrathfully. ‘That would be more in keeping with your usual style, would it not, Father?’ Her eyes narrowed as she considered his flushed, furtive face. ‘Or perhaps you did, only to be circumvented by her conduct with St Auby! I cannot believe that you truly thought that
I
would consider either of your suggestions seriously! I have no interest in going into business with you, and I certainly have no intention of marrying to oblige you again! What conceivable benefit could there be to me from such a match?’

‘The prospect of enlarging your fortune?’ Broseley suggested, still hopeful.

Alicia was not impressed by this evidence that he thought her as venal as he.

‘My fortune is already too great, sir, and achieved by means that I detested!’

Too great a fortune was not a concept Broseley could understand. By now he was rigid with the effort of holding onto his temper in the face of his daughter’s defiance.

‘I do not believe that one can ever have too much wealth, my dear Alicia,’ he said, condescension just winning over annoyance in his tone.

‘Then that is the difference between us!’ Alicia snapped furiously. Her headache was worsening and she took a sip of the unwanted Ma
deira in an effort to help clear her thoughts. It had never been a favourite drink of hers and the taste of the wine was strong and cloyingly sweet. Already her head was starting to spin and the edges of the room were beginning to blur in the dark and the heat from the fire. Sweet wine, but with a slight, bitter aftertaste which was almost undetectable…She put her glass down again with such a jolt that some of the liquid splashed onto the table.

She might be mistaken, of course, but her father appeared to favour such drinks as this. He had given her a sweet, drugged wine to soften her resistance once before: when she had refused to marry George Carberry. Alicia looked at the glass pensively. There was no way of telling if this drink had been doctored, but drugged wine and an overpoweringly hot room would combine to make her feel very ill…so unwell that she would probably be unable to leave Greyrigg and would be vulnerable once again to Broseley’s machinations for her future.

Alicia shivered convulsively. The shock had helped to clear her head. She could see the gardens outside in the pale sunlight and hear the birds twittering in the gutters, but here in this dark room it was possible to believe that Bertram Broseley was capable of anything. To him it would only be a means to achieving an end. He was watching her intently.

‘I do not care much for your taste in wine, Father,’ she observed as coldly as she could. ‘And I care as little for your plans. Now let me be quite plain. I do not wish to invest in your business and I do not wish to remarry. You may tell this mysterious suitor that I have no desire to be treated as yet another commodity!’