The Solemn Bell (16 page)

“I’m not usually up this early…”

Marcus explained, “He doesn’t have to earn his living like the rest of us.”

“No? For some reason, I thought you were all gentlemen of leisure.”

“Only me,” Captain Neill replied, turning to Angelica, “I’m the family ne’er-do-well.”

“While I hang about the office,” Marcus said, “making myself look good in front of Father. Speaking of…I’m running late. I trust the two of you can amuse yourselves until dinner?”

Captain Neill took a long sip of his coffee. “Oh, yes. Good morning, Markie.”
 

Marcus stood, turning to address his brother, “You know, Brody, for the first time in my life, I’m jealous of you.” At that, he was gone.

They were alone now—or, at least, devoid of anyone except servants. Angelica could hear one or two bodies tinkering around the room.
 

Captain Neill leaned over and kissed her temple. “He knows about us. Well, he knew about us
before
. I haven’t quite brought him up to speed.”

So Marcus believed they were in love, and possibly even getting engaged. That explained why he’d been so kind and welcoming from the very start. He thought he knew something that the other Neills didn’t.

“You and your brother are close. Do you tell him everything?”

He must have nodded. “He’s the only one who understands me.”

“Bessie, the maid, knows about us, too.” Angelica whispered, careful of the ears who might be listening.

“Servants don’t count.”

“Won’t they gossip?” she asked. “Or run tell your mother?”

He didn’t seem very concerned. Wasn’t he worried that his mother would discover they were lovers? Mrs. Neill would object to having her in the house if word got out. Likely, she and Captain Neill would be tossed out on their ears.

“You drink your coffee and let me worry about Mother,” he said. “I thought we could go for a drive this morning. Would that please you?”

Every time she climbed into the passenger seat, she feared for her life. But he did love that motorcar of his, and had been so cheerful all morning, when she was sure he’d rather be in bed.
 

Angelica smiled over at him, hoping she at least sounded sincere. “I think a drive sounds lovely.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Without morphine to sedate him, Brody was full of energy. He suddenly wanted to go, and do anything. Everything. He was restless and bored, and needed to let off some steam. Since he couldn’t take Angelica upstairs and make love until neither of them could walk, he did the next best thing.

He took her driving.
 

Brody enjoyed the open countryside, the fresh air, and a morning spent with the girl he loved. If they had stayed home, they would have had little privacy. Here, he could touch her when he wanted, and kiss her when she let him.

They sped through half of Shropshire with her tucked by his side—or, rather, with her face buried in his shoulder. Angelica didn’t like when they went too fast. Sometimes, he’d pull over at the crest of a hill, and shut off the engine just so she could catch her breath. He didn’t mind stopping to admire a pretty view of rolling hills and castle follies, and she’d lay in his lap, feeling the sun on her face. They’d talk if they felt like it, or sit in companionable silence if they didn’t.
 

For the day, at least, he couldn’t imagine anywhere he’d rather be.

“Where are we going after this?” she asked him, her cheek resting on his thigh.

Brody feared he might burst through his tweeds. “Home. It’s nearly time for luncheon.”

“No. I mean, after your sister’s party. You say we only need to make it through the week, but then what?”

“Honestly, I haven’t put that much thought into my plan. I’m more of a day-by-day type of chap, you see.” He laughed. “All my life, it’s been ‘get through this lesson’, or ‘just survive this last push’. Before you, I never thought beyond my next injection—that’s the problem with being an addict. We live for the moment, and to hell with the consequences.”

She sat up, frowning. “So we are, essentially, living by our wits?”

What a sight she was when she was cross! Watching her blue eyes flash was almost—
almost—
better than seeing her face in his lap. Strangely, both scenarios had the same effect on his pulse.
 

“It’s not quite that desperate, my girl. We can get a flat in Shrewsbury, if you’d like. There are plenty of parks and gardens, and it’s small enough that you could learn your way ‘round. I wouldn’t get in any trouble there.” He kissed the furrow in her brow. “It wouldn’t be like living in Birmingham, or Manchester, or even London.”

“Are you worried you’ll turn to the needle again?”

“I’d rather not tempt myself.”

“Maybe we ought to live in the country. There’d be no temptations there. We could live in my house…”

He nuzzled her neck. Even her softest touch could drive him senseless. “I thought we could go somewhere different for a change, like the sea, or the Continent. They say Paris is lovely in peacetime.”

“You want to run away…”

“Is that so wrong? We’ve both been locked up for too long—me in my morphine haze, and you in your solitude—we could use a change of scenery. Not permanently, mind you. But, at least, until we decide on something for the long-term.” When she didn’t say anything, he jostled her. “Come on, Angelica. Don’t you want to see the world?”

“I can’t
see
anything.” She laughed.
 

He laughed, too. “You know what I mean.”

“Alright, Brody. Let’s make it through your sister’s party, and then we’ll set off on some grand adventure. But I’m never going to give up my house. It’s my home.”

“I know, and I respect that. If you still feel the same way about it when we return from our travels, we’ll make it
our
home.”

Her bright smile wavered. “You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do anything for you, if you’d let me.”

Brody knew when he talked like that, it frightened her. It confused her. He didn’t mean to cause her any distress, but sometimes the words came out as if his heart had a mind of its own—and tended to forget that Angelica was his lover, nothing more. She was only there because he’d given her little choice. Forced to decide between the asylum, being prostituted by strangers, or becoming the mistress of a kind, yet misguided morphine addict, Angelica had naturally gone with the lesser of the three evils—or so he hoped.
 

There were times when Brody doubted the wisdom of both their decisions. He was having a difficulty drawing the line between being a lover to Angelica and
loving
Angelica. His mind and his body said one thing, while his heart screamed another. Whenever he let his guard down, his damned heart always seemed to win.

Wordlessly, Brody reached up to flip the various ignition switches. The big Bentley fired to life, and he took comfort in the steady rumble of the engine, and the purr from the exhaust. He liked cars. He liked driving them, and working on them—usually, after he drove them, he needed to work on them, because he seemed to burn through motorcars like other chaps went through hats or waistcoats. But with Angelica in the passenger seat, Brody knew better than to put her safety in jeopardy.

Oddly, with Angelica beside him, he thought twice about putting
his own
safety in jeopardy.

What was it about this girl that made him give up drink, drugs, nightclubs, and, now, hell-for-leather motorcar driving? Because of her, Captain Broderick Neill was quickly becoming someone he no longer recognized. Oddest of all was, perhaps, the fact that he did not really mind.

Brody reached over and squeezed Angelica’s gloved hand as he steered the motorcar down the hill. She smiled at him, her dark hair flying around her flushed face. She couldn’t see it, but he smiled, too. Being a soppy, castrated, bore who drove at roughly the speed of an old-age pensioner was all right with him, so long as it was all right with her.

CHAPTER THIRTY

“No chocolate tonight, I’m afraid.” Brody nudged her thigh playfully beneath the table.

She nudged him back, smiling. “Any sweet will do. Besides, I love a good Charlotte cake.”

Their cook had gone to great lengths, making each of Mary Rose’s favorite desserts for the days leading up to her party. Brody was curious to see how the fat little Frenchman could possibly top tonight’s treat—the tall, jellied
charlotte russe
placed in the center of the table.

They were each given a slice. Angelica could hardly chew hers through the smile on her face. Everything was such a delight with her. Brody wished they could eat their cake alone together, simply so he could watch her enjoy each bite. He was trying to be a gentleman, and gentlemen did not gape at ladies—especially not with one’s family watching.
 

Mary Rose was too absorbed in her party plans to notice. She blabbered on, oblivious to the fact that Mother, Father, and Marcus kept their attention on Angelica’s rapidly disappearing dessert. “Peter is coming tomorrow. And Cynthia, too.”

Brody knew Mary Rose had gone over these plans a hundred times. Mother probably knew each guest’s arrival time by heart.
 

He turned to Angelica, explaining, “Cynthia is our cousin. Peter is a friend from London.”

“How exciting!”
 

Mary Rose frowned at Angelica’s reply. “There will be lots of people. I’ve invited all my friends, and they’ve invited all
their
friends. It will be the party of the year, and the Season hasn’t even started yet. Do you know of the Season?”

“Of course. Glittering parties in Mayfair, walks in Hyde Park, and dancing all night long…it’s every girl’s dream.”

Had Angelica ever wanted to be presented? Brody wondered if, even now, such a thing for a girl like her was possible. Doubtful. Society was fickle and competitive. Only the most suitable girls succeeded. His heart ached for the beautiful young woman who could have put all other debutantes to shame if fate had not stolen her sight.
 

His sister said, picking at her cake slice, “I cannot wait to go to London. Mother takes me every June.”

Angelica still smiled. “Do you go to London, Brody?”

“I…uh…used to. But not anymore.” Although he didn’t care much for parties, the dope scene in London was exquisite. If he intended to stay clean and sober, he had better stay clear of town.

Thankfully, no one at the table mentioned his past troubles, or how he’d almost ruined Mary Rose’s come-out by getting himself arrested in an opium den raid. Father had to pay a fortune to ensure his name stayed out of the papers—yet another reason the old man despised him.

“It will just be Mother and me this year,” his sister explained. “I’m thinking very seriously about getting married, and if I’m going to find a husband, I can’t have Brody or Marcus scaring off every chap who comes to call.”

Angelica’s smile wavered. Perhaps she thought of her own brother, and how they never had the chance to share that bond. “Then good luck on your Season,” she said, her voice oddly strained. “I hope you find a wonderful man who will love you very much.”

Brody realized she wasn’t thinking of her brother at all. Angelica thought about marriage, and how the chance of a husband of her own had slipped through her fingers—or, rather, between her parted thighs.

He nearly choked on his
charlotte russe
. Where the hell did these thoughts come from? Was he really as petty as all that? Angelica’s chances at marriage weren’t over. There were plenty of men in the world who didn’t care that she wasn’t a virgin, and would overlook her out-of-wedlock child.
 

“I don’t care if my husband loves me,” Mary Rose said. “I want him to be rich and handsome.”

Brody reached for his water glass. “You’ll have your pick of the bunch, M.R.”

“Can you imagine? We’ll take a charming little flat in a quiet street near the Park, and, of course, he’ll have a place in the country—he has simply got to have a country house for summers—and we’ll go to all the best parties, and jazz every night!”

That sounded like a nightmare. He hoped Angelica didn’t have such ridiculous notions about marriage. Girls like Mary Rose were raised to place importance on social position and material possessions, rather than a relationship based on love.

Brody could never settle for a wife who did not love him. He did not want a society marriage, with a chaste, proper lady at his side for show, and a real, passionate woman like Angelica tucked away for convenience.
 

The sad fact was, Brody knew since the night he first met her, that there was no other woman for him. He would gladly let her use him for his money and his protection, as long as she’d let him hold her close at night and kiss her every morning.
 

“You all keep talking about…jazzing,” Angelica said. “What is that?”

Even Brody laughed. Angelica had never heard jazz. She had not listened to a new record since before the war. Thank God! He was glad to have something to take their minds off this talk of love and marriage.

“It’s music, Angelica,” he explained. “No one listens to Rags anymore.”

Mary Rose pushed back her chair. “Let’s all go into the library and put on the gramophone!”

In a flurry of silk and satin, his sister raced around the table to grab Angelica’s wrist. She hauled her out of her seat toward the door. It was all Brody could do to keep up. If Mary Rose wasn’t careful, she’d pull Angelica right out of her shoes.

At the last minute, he paused at the doorway. “Coming, Markie?”

“I’ll be in shortly.”

Brody followed the ladies to the library. He didn’t know why they kept the gramophone in there—of all places—but Mother refused to have the thing pollute her drawing room, so he supposed this was the next best spot. At least the library was large enough to dance.

Mary Rose dug through the record cabinet, pulling out her favorites. Finally, she made her selection, placed it on the turntable, and cranked the gramophone to life.
“Sweet Georgia Brown”
burst through the room, making Angelica take a step back. She clearly wasn’t ready for hot jazz.