Scandalous Innocent (19 page)

‘Go inside, sweetheart, and I’ll tell you about it. Yes… yes, I have him safe.’

‘Safe? Where is he, then?’

Ransome smiled at the ‘then’, placing an arm about her shoulders and pulling her gently to his side as they entered the parlour. Candles had already been lit. Bowls of flowers covered the window sills. ‘He’s at my house,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have brought him here, Phoebe. Not until he’s more recovered.’

Searching his face, she saw the tiredness in the line of his brow and a longing for her understanding in his eyes, and she knew he would have known better than she how to handle the uprooting of a man in Leon’s state. She took a deep breath and led him to a wing chair beside the window where a soft breeze stirred a bowl of sweet williams and cranesbill. ‘Is he very ill?’ she whispered, watching him sink back with closed eyes until a sigh opened them again.

He shook his head. ‘No, not
very
ill, but certainly not in a state to be brought to a lady’s house.’

‘Not even his sister’s?’

‘No. He made rather a nasty mess of my carriage. I thought it best to take him straight to Mortlake, sweetheart. Just to recover. Then he can come to you.’

‘Oh!’ Hands covered her face, stopping the tears on a tide of concern.

He was beside her on the window-seat, drawing her against his chest, his lips to her forehead above the fingertips. ‘He’ll be all right, I promise.’

She wailed into his shirt-front, ‘But it’s
not,
is it? Who’s there to look after him at Mortlake? He can’t stay
there,
can he?’ Visions of the mistress came and went.

‘He’s not going to stay there, nymph. I have two men, my valet and my steward, who know exactly what he needs. They’ll tend him, watch over him, bathe him, clean him up, shave him, doctor him…’

‘And is there a woman there?’

It was easy, and natural, to mistake the querulous voice. ‘No, sweetheart, but a woman is the last thing he needs at the moment. He’s feeling very sorry for himself. Men know how to deal with this kind of thing best.’

She sniffed. ‘What kind of thing?’ she said, adjusting herself in his arms.

‘Are you going to offer me some refreshment, Madame Donville?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m so sorry. Let me send for some food. I wasn’t sure…’

‘Burgundy? Claret?’

She blinked, touching the tip of her nose with a knuckle in a gesture that bewitched him. ‘This is where this
mistress
business is going to fall apart, my lord. I have only damson, gooseberry, elderflower and—’

‘Oh, good lord, woman,’ he groaned. ‘I can see I shall—’

The door opened before his criticism reached its finale, with a rattle, and a flash of silver, and dear Hetty holding it all together on a lace-covered tray. After her came a maid bearing a plate of sandwiches, garnished with parsley and radishes in one hand and a large fruit cake in the other. Hetty and Lord Ransome had met many years ago in London, so she was pleased to accept Phoebe’s invitation to stay with them while the food and tea was consumed and the story of Leon’s discovery, between mouthfuls, was told, all spectres of Mortlake mistresses pushed aside for the time being.

Poor Leon, it transpired, having discovered what he had done with his sister’s home, had then drunk himself into oblivion in order to forget, since there was no question of regaining it. When Ransome found him, none of his family had called to see him, either to offer support or to discuss the implications, his mother being in the throes of organising a dinner party for her husband at the time. Leon was at home being tended by his valet, who had begun to despair of his master’s health, for he had not eaten since last weekend. Physically weakened, he was in no state to protest, therefore, when Ransome took his carriage to Harley Street and, with the help of the valet, proceeded to pack Leon’s bags, wrap him in blankets with accompanying bowls and bottles, and carry him off to Mortlake. Without the two men to help him, his lordship told them, the journey might have taken twice as long, but to hand him over to a houseful of women would have been unkind while Leon was so ashamed of himself. After which both Phoebe and Hetty agreed that Leon would need time in which to recover, and their own desires to mother him must wait. Whether the phantom-like Mortlake family would get a chance to mother him before she did, Phoebe could not hope to find out unless, of course, she were to go there herself.

The most astonishing part of this episode, Hetty later volunteered, was Lord Ransome’s part in all this, for how many gamesters, having won an estate from a man, would go and rescue that same man from such wretchedness, bring him all that way in his own vehicle, house him in his own house, and tend him like a brother?

Certainly not their other brother, Phoebe agreed, wryly.

So, said Hetty, whether he had a woman at Mortlake or not, Lord Ransome was a most remarkable man who must be inordinately fond of her to wish to win her approval in such a manner. And if she were Phoebe, she would not fret too much about who he did or did not house there, when it was clear that the man had more than a smattering of the Good Samaritan about him.

It was at this point that Phoebe, her lips still tingling from Ransome’s parting kiss, felt obliged to tell dear Hetty how things had moved on from intense dislike to something more akin to… well…love, she supposed, if that’s what this sick feeling was that churned her insides whenever she thought of him. Nothing like that had happened with Claude Donville, only an awareness of success, a settled future and her mother pleased, for once.

Oh, said Hetty, was that why she’d poured the tea-slops into the sugar basin? She had thought something was not quite right.

‘But I don’t
want
to be in love with him, Hetty,’ Phoebe explained. ‘He’s not the kind of man I should be involved with, is he? You’ve seen for yourself what he’s like, and he’s
still
insisting there’s no woman at Mortlake. What am I to believe?’

‘We didn’t see a woman, love.’

‘And what kind of a man can take over a woman’s home, just like that, whether she likes it or not? If that’s not ruthlessness, then I don’t know what is. He says he always knew I was attracted to him, but that’s sheer arrogance. I wasn’t.’

‘Is that why you kept the dance programme he signed when you were sixteen?’

‘His is not the only name on it.’

‘I think it is, dear.’

‘It doesn’t prove anything, Hetty.’

‘No, dear. Indications and evidence are not proof, that’s very true, but…’

‘But what?’

Hetty sighed and readjusted her spectacles, taking the tatting-shuttle from her workbasket. ‘One can go on looking, and rejecting, and wondering why life flies past at an alarming rate, Phoebe dear, and suddenly one can wake up to the fact that, if
we’re
not perfect, why should we expect to find someone who is? Viscount Ransome has offered to marry you, yet you’re still looking for reasons why you should not accept him, even though it’s the answer to our problems. Isn’t it time you thought about the advantages? Does he have to leap into the lion’s den to retrieve your handkerchief next?’ It had once been a favourite story, ending badly.

‘No, Hetty. Don’t be cross with me. I can see the advantages for all of us, not just for myself. But I trusted once, and now I’m trying to be careful.’

‘But time is not on your side, is it, love? He appears to have fulfilled his side of the bargain.’

‘Yes, I know. Perhaps we’re a bit further on than you think.’

Looking up sharply from her tatting with fingers poised over a half-made picot, Hetty studied Phoebe’s pink face, then continued with her edging. ‘Ah,’ she murmured, mysteriously. ‘That would explain quite a lot.’

As previously arranged, Phoebe was driven over to Mortlake in Lord Ransome’s phaeton just after breakfast, dressed in her prettiest white muslin walking-dress sprigged with tiny blue flowers. A pale blue spencer covered most of the bodice, leaving deep white frills all round the neckline and wrists. Blue satin ribbons fluttered from the ruched bonnet, a creation which was rudely disturbed when, after drawing his team to a halt in the middle of Richmond Park, Lord Ransome turned to kiss her with a trace of that ruthlessness she had complained about only last evening. Then, without a word of explanation, he continued the journey.

Phoebe righted her bonnet, tucked a stray curl inside, and held the back of her gloved hand to her mouth with the merest sideways glance at the rather smug expression on her companion’s face. ‘Is that what a mistress must expect, my lord?’

‘Yes. A wife, too. Planned spontaneously again.’

‘Tell me about Leon, if you please. Is there any improvement?’

‘The transformation is remarkable. He was sitting up in bed eating breakfast when I left. However,’ he warned, ‘I think you may see a change in him since you last met. He’s lost weight, for one thing. Nothing to worry about. We’ll soon fatten him up. He needs exercise, too. And fresh air. Don’t be too concerned.’

She was glad of his lordship’s warning, as her first impression of her brother was that, if this was looking remarkably better, she was glad not to have seen him yesterday or she might have burst into tears. It was yet another reason, she thought, to be grateful to Lord Ransome for his forethought. Sitting up in bed against the white pillows, Leon might have been invisible but for his unruly shock of black curling hair that corkscrewed damply after a recent bath. His eyes, sunken beneath heavy brown lids, were dark and still bloodshot, fastening on his sister’s concerned face and filling with sorry tears even before a word had been exchanged.

‘Dearest…ah, dearest one!’ Phoebe said, taking him into her arms. ‘Hush, love, don’t weep. It’s all right…really… it’s going to be all right. Now we can look after you, and feed you. Shh!’

‘Can you forgive me, Pheeb? I’d never have hurt you willingly, you know that. I’ve been such an idiot.’

‘We help each other out, love. That’s all there is to it. Where was Mama in all this? Did she not contact you?’

‘Under Templeman’s thumb, where she usually is, these days.’

‘Mama? Under a man’s thumb? That’s news.’

‘Does Ross know?’ he said, wiping one eye on the sheet.

‘Yes. Mama wrote to tell
him,
not me.’

‘That’s another Hawkin under a thumb,’ he whispered.

Phoebe sat back, puzzled. ‘Ross? Under Josephine’s thumb? Surely not.’

Leon’s single nod was unambiguous. ‘Certainly is, Pheeb. Always has been. Social climber. If you stand still long enough, she’ll take you for a ladder. She angled for me before Ross, remember, because I’m the eldest. And before that—’ he glanced across at his host with a raised eyebrow that spoke volumes ‘—she had her sights set on that great hulk. But enough about them. What happens to you, Pheeb? That’s what bothers me.’

‘I have plans, but the main thing is you, Leon. Are you still painting?’

He looked away, unable to meet her questioning. ‘Not for ages,’ he whispered. ‘I want to, but…well…’

‘We have a friend who wants to help. Is your hand steady?’

‘I dunno, Pheeb. My eyes are not.’

Ransome was more optimistic. ‘They will be, my friend. Stretch out your hand and let’s see if yesterday’s shakes have gone.’

The hand was steady, the wrist slender and graceful, the nails too long.

‘Nothing wrong with that. All you need is rest and good food. We’ll take you to see this friend of ours in a day or two. He likes your work.’

Leon frowned. ‘Where’s he seen it? I don’t exhibit.’

‘My watercolour,’ Phoebe said. ‘The one you gave me. I took it to show the Earl of Dysart at Ham House. He says you have a rare talent.’

They had not expected a show of excitement, not from a man in his frail condition, but nor had they expected his face to crumple like a child’s, and his eyes to fill with tears, for the second time. ‘Why?’ he croaked. ‘Why are you being so kind? I don’t deserve it. I’ve ruined everything for you, Pheeb, and you’re rewarding me. Is it some kind of new punishment?’

Phoebe squeezed his hand and, at a signal from Ransome, kissed her brother’s forehead and stood up to go. ‘Just rest, love, and we’ll talk about it later.’ She left the Viscount alone with him for a few words before he joined her, but in those brief moments she had time to see that there were many doors all round the spacious landing and that the house was in fact larger than it appeared from the outside. Why would anyone want to enlarge a house with so many rooms already? She had caught a glimpse of the housekeeper on the way in, middle-aged in grey gown and white mob-cap, definitely not a mistress. But no sign of the two young boys.

‘He’s sleeping again,’ Ransome said, closing the door. ‘He needs to catch up. Don’t be distressed, sweetheart. He’ll be up and about tomorrow. And all my wines and spirits are under lock and key, so he won’t get a drop from me, I promise you. Now, come downstairs. I have something interesting to show you.’

The entrance hall was spacious too, with high-ceilinged rooms leading off in all directions, rather sparsely furnished, serviceable rather than elegant, and enough dining chairs to seat a generous dinner party. So, she thought, he intended to entertain, did he? There was so much she ought to know about him before their relationship moved on.

‘In here,’ he said, ‘is my study.’

All men had studies, book-lined offices for the clutter of estate management, correspondence, hobbies, a place to talk to agents and stewards. Ransome’s was no different from a hundred others with leather-covered chairs and the aroma of beeswax and snuff. ‘I had a letter from your other brother this morning,’ he said when she was seated. ‘Delivered by hand. Not before time. Perhaps you’d like to take a look?’

‘Thank you, I would. But you made no mention of it to Leon just now.’

‘Read it.’

It was brief, taking her only a few moments to get the gist of what Ross was proposing and even less for her to react, her eyes blazing with indignation. The letter shook in her hand. ‘He wants you to
sell
it? To
him?
Increase in the family…needs more rooms for nurse…and the large garden? Ferry House?
My
home? Well, he didn’t waste much time there, did he?’