The Admiral's Daughter Page 10
Lady Wyatt folded her newspaper and regarded her daughter down the length of the table. ‘And is her husband in the Cabinet yet?’
‘You forget, Mama, Mr Rowlett is still quite a young man. But I believe he has hopes of a secretaryship before long.’
‘I must say,’ Aunt Breakey observed, ‘I am surprised that such an admirably sensible and hard-working man should have married such a frivolous woman—and one so young into the bargain!’
‘Aunt, you are unfair,’ Helena protested in defence of her oldest friend. ‘I know she was only seventeen when she married Mr Rowlett, and we had only just left Miss Marsham’s Academy, but she is totally devoted to him, his career, and, of course, the children.’
‘Yes, dear, but you must admit she bounces so!’
‘Portia has great energy, Aunt. She cannot curb it. I know, for Miss Marsham often tried to no avail.’
‘I will concede she is a dear girl and has been a true friend to you over the years,’ Lady Wyatt said. ‘I could only wish you were as happily and well married, Helena,’ she added with heavy emphasis before picking up her Times once more.
With her mother in that mood Helena was only too glad to escape. She stood on no ceremony with Portia, and arrived at the unfashionably early hour of ten-thirty at the Rowletts’ smart house in Grosvenor Square. Despite his very junior position with the Government, Mr Rowlett was alarmingly well-connected to virtually every great family in England and was extremely wealthy into the bargain.
Helena’s school friend was therefore indulged in her every whim by her doting husband and wanted for nothing. Fortunately, she was also down to earth and commonsensical, with a well-developed sense of the ridiculous, and none of this had spoilt her natural joie de vivre, kindness or good humour.
‘Helena! Darling!’ Helena was hardly through the front door when she heard her friend calling from above. Dressed in a sumptuous Chinese silk wrapper that scarcely contained her voluptuous figure as she leaned over the banister, her blonde curls cascading round her shoulders, Mrs James Rowlett presented an outrageous sight. The butler, his eyes firmly fixed on Helena’s face, enquired, ‘Shall I show you up, Miss Wyatt?’
‘Thank you, Simpson, I know my own way.’ Helena handed over her tippet and parasol and ran up the curve of the stairs to be swept into her friend’s warm embrace.
‘Really, Portia,’ she remonstrated as soon as the door was shut behind them. ‘You will give poor Simpson a stroke, he scarcely knew where to look! Oh, my goodness, what have you done to this room?’
It was a scant year since Mr Rowlett had indulged his wife by transforming her boudoir into a pink cavern reminiscent of the inside of a mother-of-pearl shell. Now it was a startling black-and-gold chamber, all Oriental lacquer, silks and brocade, with hand-painted papers on the walls.
‘Do you like it?’ Portia enquired, gazing round complacently. ‘It is in the very latest mode. James engaged the services of an interior designer who has worked for the Prince at Brighton.’
Helena gazed in wonderment, before finally expressing the opinion that it must have cost a fortune. She tactfully failed to add that she thought the room perfectly hideous. ‘And I am green with envy! How very much Mr Rowlett does indulge you.’
Portia twinkled naughtily. ‘Mr Rowlett is very well rewarded for his indulgence.’
‘Portia!’
‘And you—an unmarried girl—should not have caught that allusion, my dear! I cannot tell you what fun it is being married—you should try it. I am quite determined that this Season we will catch you a husband. You are quite at your last prayers!’ she teased. ‘I will take you in hand, for I know all the charming and eligible young men in town.’
‘Just because Mama forgot about last Season until it was too late, it does not mean I am at my last prayers at nineteen,’ Helena protested. ‘And how are the children?’ she said, neatly turning the subject, for Portia was a devoted mama.
‘They are divine—and do not try to make me feel guilty about being here enjoying myself. They are in the country with their grandmama Rowlett and not missing me in the slightest—she spoils them to death. Pull the bell, darling, and have some chocolate while I dress.’
It was a good hour later when the young ladies were handed into Portia’s extremely fashionable barouche. ‘Now, what shall we do first?’ Portia enquired while the groom stood patiently at the horses’ heads. ‘What are you reading at the moment?’
‘A Greek history that a friend of Mama’s has just published.’
‘My dear! Fatal! If you do not die of boredom, you will be taken for a blue-stocking in which case you may as well be dead anyway. We will go to Hookham’s and borrow some scandalous new novels, a book or two of poetry and the latest fashion plates. Then a drive in the Park to see who is in town and, after luncheon, some really serious shopping. And you must have your hair cropped.’ She regarded Helena’s brown curls critically. ‘And then I must think carefully on the most advantageous hostesses of my acquaintance for introductions—for although I know there will be no shortage of eligible young men, it will do no harm to waste no time in making you known!’
Helena could not imagine finding much consolation in the company of Portia’s ‘young men’, but she could not afford to let her bruised heart show, even to her friend. Still, she could play the game of fashionable flirtation that was permitted to unmarried girls as well as the next debutante…
The first part of Portia’s agreeable programme was readily accomplished and they were just emerging from the subscription library, followed by the footman with a pile of volumes, when Portia’s sweeping exit caused a gentleman passing by to step off the kerb onto the road.
‘My dear sir, I do apologise, I fear I never look where I am going.’ Portia dimpled prettily at the tall, rangy, gentleman who was doffing his hat. It was Adam Darvell. Helena just managed to bite back a gasp of sheer surprise and edged backwards behind the broad figure of the footman who observed these antics with well-trained composure.
‘Madam,’ Adam was replying gallantly, ‘the fault was all mine. Allow me to help you to your carriage.’ He held out his gloved hand and Portia, with a gracious smile, placed her little one in his and stepped forward to where her fashionable conveyance awaited.
The footman paced forward in her wake, leaving Helena exposed, and feeling very foolish, in the library doorway. Portia glanced round for her companion and stared in surprise at the sight of Helena, pink-cheeked and apparently rooted to the spot. ‘Helena, dear! Do make haste.’
His lordship turned with a start of surprise which Helena had not the slightest doubt was contrived. The wretched man had seen her from the beginning and, from the dark glint of amusement in his eyes, she knew he was enjoying her discomfiture!
‘Miss Wyatt, what an unexpected pleasure. I did not see you there, nor indeed hope to see you again so soon.’
He was mocking her, enjoying this little revenge. ‘Lord Darvell! I…er…good morning. You are in London!’
‘As you see.’ Adam sounded dry, as well he might in the face of this gauche response. Immaculately dressed in a coat of dark blue superfine, cream pantaloons and highly polished Hessians, he stood waiting patiently for her to come forward to the carriage.
Helena pulled herself together with an effort, despite the fact that her heart seemed to have lodged in her throat, and remembered her social obligations. She managed an appearance of reasonable composure as she said, ‘Mrs Rowlett, may I present Lord Darvell. Lord Darvell, Mrs James Rowlett.’
‘Enchanted, Mrs Rowlett.’ His bow was as immaculate as his composure and Helena eyed her companion with some trepidation. Lord Darvell was also contemplating Portia; indeed, she was well worth his attention. Her blonde curls peeped charmingly from a bonnet of dark pink velvet which exactly matched the deep raspberry pink of her pelisse. From the curling ostrich feather in her hat to the tip of her fine kid boots, Mrs Rowlett was the epitome of fashion and beauty, and quite well aware of the fact.
‘But we should not trouble Lord Darvell…’ Helena began, glaring at her friend.
‘It is no trouble,’ he rejoined smoothly. ‘I am going in that direction. It will be my pleasure to accompany you—may I offer you my arm, ladies?’
With Portia on his right, Helena had no option but to rest her fingertips on his left sleeve and listen to Portia’s charming chatter as they strolled along to the jewellers. Adam answered her easily, with a ready charm, but other than steering them both carefully through the passersby, he paid no attention to Helena at all.
The warmth of his arm seemed to burn her fingers through the fine cloth. Helena kept her eyes firmly ahead, yet her mind was in a turmoil of memories, of recollected sensation, of the pressure of his lips on hers, of the weight of his body on hers on the feather mattress.
By the time they reached the entrance to the fashionable jewellers her breathing felt ragged, she knew her cheeks were flushed and she could only thank her mother’s rigorous social training which kept her standing there with an expression of polite interest on her face.
Adam doffed his hat once more, smilingly agreed to Portia’s pressing invitation to call on her at Grosvenor Square at the earliest opportunity, and took his leave.
Both ladies gazed after the tall figure disappearing down Bond Street, very different thoughts filling their minds as they did so. The manager emerged beaming from his office and hurried to the doorway. ‘Mrs Rowlett, good day, ma’am. How may I be of service?’
Portia, who had fabricated the story of the necklace on the spur of the moment, was temporarily at a loss. ‘Oh, a wedding present. I need something…ah, that salver looks just the thing.’
As they emerged twenty minute later and the package was handed into the barouche, Helena hissed, ‘That serves you right!’
‘Oh, one can always use a salver,’ Portia replied airily, settling back against the cushions. ‘But, my dear, why did you not tell me you were acquainted with Lord Darvell? He is absolutely gorgeous! And such a rake, if one is to believe half of the stories one hears about him! What is your mama about, permitting you to know him? Perhaps she thinks there is safety in numbers if she brings you to town!’ She broke off to wave at a passing phaeton. ‘Oh, do look, there’s Anne Gregson in such a quiz of a hat.’
Receiving no response, Portia glanced back at her friend and, seeing Helena’s far-from-happy expression, leapt to the wrong conclusion. ‘Why, never tell me he is not declaring an interest?’
‘I do not know what you are talking about,’ Helena protested feebly. ‘I hardly know the man.’
Portia treated this with the contempt it deserved; taking Helena’s hand, she patted it briskly. ‘You must not despair, dearest: rich, handsome rakes only exist to be reformed and married. We must put our heads together; just because he has eluded matrimony so far, it does not mean he can escape forever.’ She leant over and patted Helena’s cheek. ‘And especially not with a lure as lovely as you.’
Helena hardly paid any attention as Portia chatted on. She could only be grateful that she was sitting down, for her legs felt weak with reaction. Why she had never imagined him coming to town she could not comprehend. Of course someone of his social standing would be in London for the Season. And to be treated like that, with such cold civility, cut like a knife! It would have been easier to bear if he had turned on his heel and strode off. Well, it was plain his lordship felt no pangs of conscience for what had transpired last time they met.
‘Oh, do pay attention, Helena!’ Portia demanded. ‘Do not think to gull me with this unconvincing indifference! If you hardly know the man, why did you go so pale when you encountered him, and why were the two of you so careful to exchange only the most commonplace remarks?’
Helena glared at her. ‘Shush! The servants will overhear.’ Although the coachman was intent on making his way through the now thronged streets back to Grosvenor Square, the footman sitting up behind them, with his arms folded, was well placed to hear every indiscretion.
James Rowlett was in the hallway when they arrived back at Portia’s house, taking his hat and cane from the butler. Portia rushed over to kiss her husband directly on the lips, ignoring the effect this had on her bonnet, and then stepped back, pouting. ‘Darling, you are not off to the stuffy old House already? I told you Helena would be here for luncheon.’
Punctiliously Mr Rowlett bowed to Helena. ‘Please forgive me, Miss Wyatt, I am summoned to the Admiralty. I dare say you will both enjoy a good gossip over luncheon without me.’
‘Darling! I never gossip!’ Portia protested. Her loving husband, who was as dark as she was fair, and whom even his best friend would not describe as a handsome man, allowed a pained expression to cross his homely features. However, he said nothing, merely twinkling at Helena with brown eyes which did much to show his kindly, affectionate nature.
Portia whisked Helena into the dining room, flapping her hands dismissively at the butler. ‘Thank you, Simpson, if everything is laid out, that will be all. We will wait on ourselves.’ As the door shut behind his rigidly disapproving back, Portia sighed. ‘Poor James works so hard! Never mind, without him here we can talk about Lord Darvell immediately. Now help yourself to the salmon and let me pour some wine.’
Helena obediently filled her plate from the delicious cold collation that was set out and took the glass of white wine Portia poured. The food looked wonderful, but she knew it would taste like ashes in her mouth, so she simply sat, waiting for the expected stream of questions from her friend.
Portia looked at her shrewdly. ‘Come on! There is some secret here.’
Half an hour later, the salmon was still untouched on Mrs Rowlett’s plate as she hung agog on every thrilling word. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined the exploits that were being recounted. Helena expunged the more intimate details of her encounters with Adam, and no word of her suspicions about the possible French agent passed her lips, but there was enough in her tale to astound Portia.
‘And this lieutenant never guessed you were a lady?’ she demanded.
‘No, I believe he did not.’
‘And then what happened? Oh, Helena! This is more exciting than any serial novel I have ever read!’ But when the tale turned to Helena’s return home, Portia’s common sense reasserted itself. ‘But, Helena—why are you not marrying Lord Darvell? You were alone with the man on his ship in conditions of the most extreme intimacy for several days and nights! I know your mama has er…advanced…ideas, but surely she will have insisted that he marry you?’
Helena stopped pushing her food around the plate and put down her fork. ‘Naturally, Lord Darvell felt honour bound to make me a declaration. But I turned him down.’
‘What!’ Portia just gazed open-mouthed at her friend. ‘What possible reason could you have for doing such a quixotic thing?’
‘I may have been compromised,’ Helena said stiffly, ‘although no one who would say anything knows of it. But I am not ruined—and there is no reason why I have to marry him.’
‘But why not? He is handsome, eligible, well bred—and very rich with great expectations. My dear, what a figure of a man—that mouth, those eyes, those shoulders…I may love my darling James, but that does not make me blind to the attractions of a man like Lord Darvell.’
Helena stood and walked up and down the room, finally coming to rest in front of the long window giving out on to the rear garden. ‘I would not wish to figure as a woman who entrapped a man against his will.’
‘Oh, fiddlesticks! You are eminently eligible—and he has to marry somebody, when all’s said and done. He may as well marry you as anyone else—for you
are well bred, intelligent, beautiful and well-dowered.’
Helena could well imagine that Portia was already considering the guest list, the wedding flowers and the composition of the wedding breakfast. She swung round, holding up an admonishing finger. ‘Portia, stop planning! I know you too well. Just believe me when I tell you that I do not wish to marry a man who does not…does not love me.’
Portia regarded her friend through narrowed eyes, a deep suspicion forming in her mind. ‘He may, or may not love you, but you are in love with him, are you not? And do not try and deny it,’ she added hastily as Helena opened her mouth indignantly. ‘I saw how you acted this morning. It is not like you to be so gauche. But now I see it all: you love him, and he has piqued you because he has offered you no word of love. Is that not so?’
Helena stared back at Portia, the angry words of denial dying on her lips. It was as if a large hand were squeezing her heart painfully, so sharp was the longing for Adam in that moment, so bitter was the realisation that Portia was right.
She loved Adam, loved him body and soul despite everything and, if it were not for her stupid obstinacy, she would already be his affianced bride.
Chapter Seven
The clocks at Almack’s Assembly Rooms struck eleven in unison, signalling that the time for admission had passed. As Helena was swept down the set, her mind half on the intricate figure of the cotillion, the double inner doors into the ballroom swung open.
Several heads turned to see who the latecomer was, but only Helena faltered in her step. Lord Darvell paused on the threshold, smoothing the cuffs of his immaculate evening coat, his eyes moving, with little apparent interest, over the assembled debutantes thronging the room.
In the candlelight his tanned skin gave him an air of rakish danger, a hint of the unconventional despite the rigorously correct evening attire without which no gentleman, however exalted, could gain admission to Almack’s. Several debutantes watched him, despite their mamas’ disapproval, and several of the more dashing young matrons became suddenly more alert.