Chapter 28
Max was sitting alone in his library late one evening, making a pretence of reading – he’d been doing a great deal of that sort of thing lately, since an introspective mood had seized him and seemed reluctant to let him go – when his butler came to inform him, in a voice carefully stripped of all vestiges of human emotion, that there was a young woman at the door asking to see him with the utmost urgency.
This was a novelty even in his somewhat disordered life, and Max looked back at George Wicken thoughtfully.
The elderly butler was someone who’d known him since childhood; who’d been there in attendance, in fact, on the momentous day nearly twenty years ago when he’d arrived from Martinique and stood trembling with Celestine in the chilly, intimidating marble-floored hall, cast adrift from everything he’d known into a new and terrifying existence.
George was the perfect butler, never at a loss, but he was also a man of great integrity and compassion.
If a ragged woman in desperate straits had come calling, she’d have left with a shilling for a lodging and probably something to eat, but if he’d thought she was a fraud or a criminal, she’d have gone with a flea in her ear and an injunction never to return.
Women of the town didn’t generally come boldly knocking on doors in Mayfair, and if they did, the masters of the houses didn’t have their evenings disturbed by hearing a word about it.
Butlers existed, and were the best paid of servants, precisely to shield their employers from such vulgar matters.
The very fact that Wicken felt duty-bound to tell him rather than dealing with the problem himself spoke volumes by itself. Could it possibly be…?
‘A young lady, perhaps,’ he suggested, setting down his book and hoping his face didn’t reveal the least trace of the complicated mixture of emotions that assaulted him in that moment.
There was trepidation there, but pleasurable anticipation too, even though he couldn’t deceive himself for a moment that she – if in fact it was her, Allegra, Miss Constantine – had come to see him in such an unconventional and perilous manner simply because she burned for his touch and his company, as he burned for hers.
‘I should have said that she was, sir,’ Wicken answered superbly, ‘in other circumstances.’
‘I expect she is heavily cloaked?’ Max offered amiably. ‘Disguised, one might say?’
‘Yes, sir. That being so, I cannot venture as to make a guess at her dress or any other detail of her appearance, except to say that she is of diminutive stature, and labouring under a great deal of agitation.’
‘As well she might be, if she is who I think she is. I think you’d better show her in. And Wicken… no need to mention this matter to anyone else.’
George allowed a flicker of regret to show in his otherwise impassive countenance.
‘Unfortunately, sir, Thomas has seen her; the youngest footman, as you might possibly not recall.’ This in a tone that suggested Thomas to be far, far beneath his master’s notice, like some lowly insect.
‘But I dismissed him to go about his other duties, saying that I would deal with the impudent little hussy myself, without any need for his smirking assistance. I beg your pardon for the intemperate language, but it was apparent that some subterfuge was necessary, in order to convince Thomas that the young lady’s arrival was a mere inconvenience and a matter of no greater moment.
Luckily, if I may say so, independent thought is not something I have known him indulge in.
He is not, in my estimation, intelligent enough to be inquisitive. ’
‘Thank you,’ Max said with sincere appreciation.
Wicken bowed regally, and absented himself, gliding away as if on invisible casters.
A moment or two later he returned, ushering the cloaked and hooded visitor in, bowing once more before he exited and closing the door firmly behind himself without uttering another word.
Whatever he thought privately of the evening’s events – and his employer could only conjecture – no instruments of torture would ever extract an indiscretion from him, still less a word or act of disloyalty.
It was good to be reminded that he wasn’t quite alone in the world yet, even if he often felt he was.
Mr Severin rose politely, and watched as the small, mysterious figure took a few steps forward and pushed back her hood, in the best traditions of the stage, to reveal a lovely, stormy face.
Of course it was her. It was disquieting, how glad he was to see her.
He had painstakingly built up defences over the past few years, strong walls that kept out unwelcome emotion, but it seemed she brought them all tumbling down on him, so much useless rubble.
And yet she was the one who had appeared naked in front of him.
Why did it feel as though the opposite were true?
Any self-protective thought he might have entertained of manufacturing some careless jape about how desperate Miss Constantine must be for his company, for the feel of his lips on hers and his hands on her body – desperate enough to risk scandal and disgrace by this highly imprudent visit – died on his lips as he saw her distraught expression.
She was indeed in a highly agitated condition, as George had said, trying hard to conceal it and failing miserably.
‘What’s happened, Allegra?’ he asked abruptly. And then, ‘Sit down – I’ll pour you a drink. You look as though you need it.’
She subsided into the leather armchair he indicated, the twin to his own on the other side of the fireplace.
He poured a small measure of fine old French brandy into a heavy crystal glass and took it across to her.
Still she had not spoken a word. The effort of getting herself here and inveigling herself past his butler, into the house and this room – which was no mean achievement for a young woman who undoubtedly had never so much as walked along a London street alone before, let alone at night – seemed to have used up her strength for the moment.
He let her be while she recovered her composure, dropping into the chair opposite her and trying not to stare, since that would hardly help matters.
He knew she was about to tell him something that he would not enjoy hearing, very likely something that would disrupt a life that wasn’t in the best shape to begin with – but just now that didn’t seem to matter.
He liked seeing her in his private sanctuary, whatever came of it afterwards.
Although she did not belong here – that was patently absurd – he felt as though she did.
And he might as well enjoy that sensation while he could, and cherish the memory afterwards.
She lifted her glass and drank, and then set it down with a decisive little clunk. ‘Mr Englishby is trying to blackmail me into his bed,’ she said baldly.