Chapter 2
The next morning there were few places in London where Lord Stainbridge wanted to be less than Derby Square, where Lionel Chivenham had his moldering house.
That, however, was where his footsteps had taken him.
His unease and suspicions about the events of the previous night pricked at him. He must know more.
There were no gentry about so early in the morning, but servants could be seen cleaning steps, polishing brass, and making purchases from passing hawkers.
None of this activity, however, illuminated the dreamlike events of the previous night.
Chivenham had put him in a hackney, and once home his valet had seen him safely to his bed.
He scarcely recollected any of it. He had awakened quite early with a sour dryness in his mouth but without an alcoholic hangover.
Almost against his will he had been drawn back to this house.
He stood for a while, leaning against the wrought iron railings of the small garden in the center of the square, worrying his chin with his silver-headed cane.
He gazed at Chivenham’s tall, narrow house as if it could give him some answers to his bewilderment, partly convinced that what he remembered of the night before must be a dream produced by drugs.
He knew there were some people who had a fondness for, even an addiction to, opium.
But there was that jade horse that he had found by his bed, placed there by his valet…
It was only idly that he noticed a cloaked figure slip out of the basement of Chivenham’s house and hurry down the street past his watching post. Something about her caught his attention—a frantic quality to her movements that was reflected in her eyes as she glanced back at Chivenham’s house.
Could this be…? Doubtless it was only a servant up to no good, but having no hope of enlightenment from the house he followed the dark-cloaked figure.
She walked briskly for about fifteen minutes and then turned into Saint James’ Park and sat upon a wall.
Lord Stainbridge began to feel foolish. He had failed to obtain a clear look at the female, but she was very shabbily dressed.
Surely it was merely a servant taking a little fresh air or meeting a lover on her day off.
He was about to turn to go when she suddenly jumped up, her movements so awkward he felt compelled to follow her.
She hurried down Great George’s Street in the direction of the river and Westminster Bridge.
At the last minute she began to run. He was almost too late.
She was clambering onto the parapet of the bridge when he caught her and pulled her roughly from danger.
“Leave me alone, for God’s sake!” she cried wildly, but when she saw who her rescuer was she collapsed in a dead faint.
Frantically, Lord Stainbridge loosened the buttons of her high collar and fanned her with his hat.
He was thankful there were no passersby, for he dreaded to think what she might say when she recovered.
Her reaction to his face told him she was the woman involved in the previous night’s affair.
She was older than he had thought and surprisingly well-spoken, but still he had no doubt as to her identity.
He had suspected there was more to the matter than was apparent. Could it be a marriage trap? It all made little sense…
If only Nicholas were here to handle this. When the woman regained consciousness there was likely to be a scene of the kind Lord Stainbridge most disliked.
Her reaction, however, surprised him. When she came to and saw him she closed her eyes again and lay still.
He might have thought she had fainted again except for the tension that replaced the flaccidity of her body.
Then she struggled to a sitting position and spoke with the deadly calm of despair.
“I can only suppose my brother sent you. Very well, let us return.”
Lord Stainbridge suppressed an instinctive denial.
His principal desire was to get her away from this place to a private one, where he could discover the extent of the plot.
As she seemed docile, he raised her to her feet and supported her back toward Parliament Street, where they found a cab.
He pushed her in, told the driver to wander a little, then climbed in after her.
In the grimy interior, the woman looked like a wax statue—pale, still, and blank of face.
He could see, however, that she was handsome, with fine, even features and rich auburn hair.
He only remembered the hair. When she closed her eyes, as she did for a moment, she could almost be beautiful.
When she opened them the expression there dissolved the effect.
The expression was a clear reminder of the night before.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She turned to him then, and for a moment there was a touch of grim amusement in her expression, but she didn’t answer. Instead she posed a question of her own. “Where are you taking me?”
“Where do you wish to go?” He was strangely wary of her composure.
“Back to the river,” was her simple reply.
After a small, helpless pause he asked her why, and she replied, gazing out the window, “Well, the alternatives are worse, you see.”
“And what are they?”
“Marriage to a man I loathe or poverty and disgrace.”
He could not stand the grain of uncertainty, or hope, any longer. “You are the woman who was … introduced to pleasure last night. Who are you?”
She turned clear, blue, affronted eyes on him. “I am Eleanor Chivenham, and let us be precise. I am the woman you raped. I do recognize you. And besides, my brother was kind enough to tell me who had … who was given the honor of my despoiling, Lord Stainbridge.”
A chill settled on him like a coat of ice. “His sister? Is the man a monster? I cannot understand … It is not … Please, Miss Chivenham, allow me to take you to my house, where we can discuss this situation. I assure you, despite everything, you can trust yourself to me.”
How strange it was, Eleanor thought, that he be so agitated and she so calm. After a moment she agreed to his plan. “After all, my lord, it cannot matter much what you do now. If you can find a solution other than the river, I will be grateful.”
They did not speak for the remainder of the journey.
Lord Stainbridge fidgeted while Eleanor struggled to remain calm.
Inside she was all turmoil, but it was heavily overlaid by shock and despair.
She turned her head at one point to look wonderingly at the man beside her.
She knew of the earls of Stainbridge, for she’d grown up not ten miles from their seat, Grattingley.
The Delaney family were rich and powerful, and Grattingley known for its elegance.
How had this Earl of Stainbridge come to this?
As he was staring fixedly out the window she felt able to study him.
He was surprisingly young, only a few years older than herself.
He was handsome in a fine-drawn manner that did not particularly appeal to her.
He looked oversensitive and highly strung, but that could be just the occasion.
She remembered her impression of the night before that he was like a medieval saint.
It had not been false. His was a sensitive, oval face, and his hands could be those of an artist.
She thought ruefully that two less likely partners in debauchery would be hard to find.
Lord Stainbridge’s principal thought, as he stared out at the increasingly busy streets, was that he was almost certainly playing into someone’s hands and being a gullible fool …
Nicky would not have behaved like this. He could hardly convince himself, however, that his twin would abandon a lady in distress.
It was all so difficult. He hated the unpredictable.
It was Lord Stainbridge’s habit when in a quandary to think, “What would Nicky do?” In this case, however, it was not helping much.
His outrageous twin would doubtless seduce the lady into compliance and then send her on her way with a handsome douceur, and happy too, no doubt.
A vague idea stirred in his head. He began to see a way out of the situation.
When Lord Stainbridge ushered Eleanor into his elegant town house he treated her as an honored guest. Eleanor saw the shielded astonishment on the face of his footman.
“This way, ma’am,” said Lord Stainbridge, ushering her into a richly appointed salon. “Perhaps you would care for some breakfast?”
Eleanor shuddered at the mere thought of food. “No, thank you, my lord.”
“Perhaps some tea, then?” he persisted. “I am sure it would do you good.”
To end his fussing, which she found most peculiar, Eleanor agreed to this. When the tea came she sugared it more than was her habit and did find it settled her nerves a little.
The servants were too well trained to exhibit shock, and yet she was conscious of embarrassment at being here, unescorted. Then she remembered she was no longer a respectable woman who need consider such matters.
For a few minutes they sat drinking tea and making desultory conversation. Eleanor guessed Lord Stainbridge was finding it difficult to raise the subject that needed to be discussed. She found she could not raise it either.
A bubble of hysteria was growing in her at this grotesque parody of a morning call.
Was this all an extension of the nightmare? It seemed as unreal as the events of the night before. Despite her knowledge that it was so, she found it impossible to believe that this elegant gentleman was the monster who had attacked her.
Then her idly wandering eyes caught sight of a graceful prancing horse of green jade.
Could it be? The fact that it was carelessly placed on a small table, not displayed in any way, made her think it was in fact the piece that Lionel had told her had been Lord Stainbridge’s reward for her ravishment.