Chapter 29
Allegra had never really stopped to consider before how restricted her life was, and how narrow her experience.
It was only when she was obliged to make her way out of the house in secret and across a mile of unfriendly London streets that she realised: her previous existence had not prepared her to do so; had been designed, it almost seemed, to prevent her from even contemplating attempting such an outrageous thing.
In Surrey, at her father’s house, she could walk alone, through the fields and into the village.
That was allowed. She’d done the same on Viola’s husband’s vast estate, and enjoyed the freedom of it.
But she had never in all her nineteen years left the house alone in London, being accompanied always by her mother, her sisters and governess, or very occasionally one of the maids.
This inability to go anywhere by herself in the great dirty, dangerous city of close on a million people was as immutable a fact in the daytime as in the evening.
And it wasn’t a restriction placed upon her by an unreasonable parent; no young lady would dream of doing such a thing in Town.
It wasn’t clear to her if the streets really were highly unsafe for unaccompanied females, or if it was a matter of a young lady’s virtue being so fragile that it must be guarded at all times, and seen to be guarded.
She could not so much as go to return a library book, or buy a length of muslin by herself.
She could not pay a call alone upon a friend, even; she would be obliged to go in a carriage with a maidservant or sibling.
Most of all, she could not visit a young unmarried gentleman at his home, or anywhere else, either in the light of day or during the hours of darkness.
Her reputation, and that of her sisters, would be in tatters if anyone ever came to hear of her actions tonight.
Probably they’d never recover, and their prospects would be blighted forever.
Such an action, if discovered, would cause almost as much damage as would Mr Englishby’s allegations being spread abroad.
This was bitterly ironic, just as though the world and all its inhabitants were in league against her.
But she had no choice, so she did not stop to contemplate the magnitude of what she was doing.
Instead she waited with growing impatience until she was confident that everyone was asleep, and then slipped out by the area door, locking it and taking one of the big, heavy iron keys with her in her stupidly impractical little reticule, where it banged uncomfortable against her thigh as she hurried along, as if to remind her of the folly of her enterprise.
Young women did not carry keys, or own them; the very idea was absurd, and the symbolism sufficiently obvious.
It was the longest mile she’d ever walked in her life, and seemed endless, like a panicked journey in a nightmare, when one ran and ran and got nowhere.
She wasn’t sure, as she scurried along, if the quiet streets scared her more than the busy ones.
When there was nobody visible but herself, the slightest sound – a footfall behind her, a slammed door, the sudden, agitated barking of a dog – set her looking over her shoulder in apprehension.
But better-illuminated, busier thoroughfares, especially Oxford Street when she came to it, harboured groups of men, and individuals lounging about their mysterious and probably disreputable business, and that was a worry too.
Her heart was in her mouth the whole way.
There were women on the streets, of course, plenty of them, and she knew that at this hour some, perhaps most, must be streetwalkers.
Prostitutes of the lowest order, with no option but to ply their trade out here in all weathers, regardless of the danger.
Men, she supposed, would think that she was one of their number, or that she was in any case an unprotected female of low rank who could be approached with impunity.
That must be so, they would reason, because she was alone.
It made her legitimate prey. The injustice of such a notion could leave you breathless if you dwelt on it for too long.
Society, which as far as Allegra could see was organised by and for the convenience of men, did not allow women of rank to go out alone, because it was not safe.
Why was it not safe, for women of all classes? Because of men.
But she did not allow all this to overset her or deter her from her purpose; she could not afford to.
She was fast, sure-footed and inconspicuous in her dark cloak, and she made her way to Mayfair without any more inconvenience than a few incomprehensible drunken shouts as she passed swiftly on.
To be forced to consider herself lucky not to be molested in what was supposed to be the greatest and most civilised city in the world was also bitingly ironic, but there was no time to think of that now either.
She’d realised all along that Mr Severin’s butler would be her greatest obstacle, assuming she got that far.
If he resolutely refused to admit her, she would have no choice but to reveal her identity, as a last resort.
A well-trained servant could hardly be expected to take seriously a caller who refused to give her name and merely insisted on seeing his master while claiming without any shred of proof to be acquainted with him.
Rather to her surprise, it did not come to that.
The tall, young footman who answered her knock looked her up and down insolently as soon as he laid eyes on her, and was clearly about to make some highly disagreeable remark regarding her respectability, but before he could do so an elderly butler appeared magically at his shoulder and sent him about his business with sharp efficiency.
A second later she was waiting in the entrance hall, and almost before she had had a chance to look about her and calm the pounding of her heart by deep breathing, she was being ushered into Mr Severin’s library and left alone with him.
It was almost too easy. Again. Perhaps he was in the habit of receiving mysterious female visitors at all hours, and that was why the butler had not blinked when he saw her, nor made any attempt to bar her entrance. But she could not allow that disquieting thought to divert her.
Her unwitting host was coatless, and had at some earlier point in the evening pulled off his cravat and cast it carelessly aside; she could almost picture the impatience with which he must have done it.
His stylish silk waistcoat was unfastened too, and his snowy white sleeves rolled up to show strongly muscled arms. His throat was entirely exposed, down to a vee that revealed a tantalising glimpse of his chest. Despite her agitation, she must always acknowledge how handsome he was, how endlessly appealing to her, even though she could also see that he was tired and not in the best of humours.
He jumped to his feet when she entered, as civility required, but he’d previously been lounging in a comfortable-looking leather armchair by the empty fireplace, a book, a glass and a half-empty decanter at his side.
This was what she’d expected, presuming that she would be lucky enough to find him at home, which had always been a gamble.
She’d been worried that he might be drunk and in no fit state to listen to her with understanding – somehow, she had a vague sense that young gentlemen spent a solid proportion of their time inebriated when not in genteel female company – but he didn’t seem to be.
At any rate, he didn’t appear surprised to see her, having presumably already realised that his unexpected caller must be her, which argued for a certain level of alertness.
And his first words showed that he was perfectly capable of gathering from her demeanour the fact that she had come on no light, trivial errand.
He was prepared for trouble before she’d uttered as much as a syllable, and trouble was what she was bringing to his door.
But he was involved already, and deserved to be told how matters stood, so she could not help it.
When she drew on the courage that had carried her here and told him the bare fact of Englishby’s blackmail, he cursed in some language she didn’t understand. ‘Tell me everything,’ he said.