Читать книгу: «A Scoundrel Of Consequence», страница 2

‘That depends on the husband. No doubt, given time, things will change.’

When Cassandra met his gaze she experienced a shock of something between recognition and a kind of thrilling fear. Those eyes, deep blue and narrowed by a knowing, intrusive smile, seemed to look right past her face and into her self. For that split second she felt completely exposed and vulnerable—traits unfamiliar to her, traits she did not like.

‘Not if I have my way, Captain Lampard. And I always do.’

‘I can see that. However, I am not here because I want to be convinced of the merits of children’s charities. I am here because I was shot and in no condition to object—although I do thank you for all you and Dr Brookes have done.’

‘Don’t you like children, Captain Lampard?’ she asked suddenly.

‘It’s not a case of not liking them. I’ve never had anything to do with them.’

William became thoughtful and a heavy frown creased his brow. It was an expression those who knew him well would recognise, for it indicated his interest. His curiosity was aroused. Cassandra Greenwood was a woman who lived and breathed her cause and he did not know how he knew, but he knew he was looking at that rare individual who would tell the whole world to go to blazes should it get in her way.

As the initial shock of his assault by an unknown assailant began to wear off, an instinct, a built-in awareness that thrived inside the soldier in him and was essential if one was to survive, told him that here was the dedication, ambition, determination and a sense of purpose of one who meant to succeed. There was an air about her, in the set of her chin and the firmness of her lips, a resolve so obstinate and positive that he found if difficult to restrain himself from showing the same enthusiasm as she did.

Donning his hat, he turned from her, his gaze resting for a brief moment on the child. He seemed to hesitate before coming to a decision. Looking back at her, he said, ‘The boy—Archie. When he is recovered, send him to my house in Grosvenor Square. I’ll have a word with Thomas, my head groom. If the lad likes horses, Thomas might very well set him on in the stables. I’m sure we can find him something to do that will keep him off the streets. I shall also make sure you are repaid for your kindness.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, her expression registering surprise as he moved towards the door. ‘It would be much appreciated,’—but he must not have heard her words, for he did not turn to look at her again. Unable to believe he had offered to provide Archie with work and a home, she stood staring at the door through which he had disappeared for several moments. Just when she was beginning to believe that every scandalous thing she had heard about him was true, he had to do something nice.

It would appear Captain Lampard had hidden depths. By offering to provide Archie with work and a home, he had exposed one redeeming feature to her. Was it possible that the renowned rake had returned to England a reformed character?

As William sat in Miss Greenwood’s carriage taking him to Grosvenor Square, his horse tethered to the back, he tried to define what had been so attractive about her. She certainly wasn’t plain. Her real physical confidence was sensual and there had been an assured innocent vanity in her smile. He smiled to himself, remembering it, but then a more pressing matter entered his thoughts and he became preoccupied with discovering the identity of whoever it was who had tried to end his life. A cold, hard core of fury was growing inside him, shattering every other emotion he’d ever felt, leaving him incapable of feeling anything other than the need to find the person responsible.

Cassandra, her mother and her eighteen-year-old sister Emma lived in a house of modest proportions in Kensington compared with Aunt Elizabeth’s grand residence in Mayfair. Cassandra’s parents had been well matched in character, but they came from different backgrounds. The Greenwood family belonged to the entrepreneurial and professional classes. Her mother was of the landed gentry with aristocratic connections. What Cassandra’s parents did have in common was that they came from the poorer branches of their respective families. Neither of them had a private fortune.

Deeply concerned with the sorry plight of the City’s destitute children, James Greenwood had opened the small institute in Soho. Since his death three years earlier, Cassandra and her mother had struggled to keep it open. They were constantly short of funds. Dr Brookes, who had been Dr Greenwood’s close friend and associate, generously gave up his time to tend the seriously ill or injured children who came to them, and raised funds on their behalf.

Bereft after the death of her beloved husband, Harriet Greenwood, not content to lead a quiet life, had become involved in the running of the institute and was willing to allow her eldest daughter to work alongside her, even though twenty-year-old Cassandra’s break from convention shocked friends and acquaintances and brought severe disparagement. But Cassandra, undeterred, refused to allow a lot of small-minded, ignorant people to take from her all that she and her mother were trying to accomplish.

Harriet’s cousin Lady Elizabeth Monkton, a widow, childless and a wealthy and extremely popular socialite, had taken both girls under her wing when James had died and done her utmost to guide them in the way she thought was best for them. Eager to give them each a Season, she had been disappointed when Cassandra, who had her own ideas and quietly despised the useless frivolity of the social scene, had declined her offer—although she was not opposed to using Lady Elizabeth’s position to her advantage. In her own subtle and charming way, Cassandra was successful at coaxing money out of the well-to-do at the balls and parties she attended.

Tonight, Aunt Elizabeth—as she liked to be known to Harriet’s girls—was to give a ball to mark her fiftieth birthday. Cassandra was to attend and, as a special concession, Emma, too, despite not having made her curtsy. They were at Monkton House, getting ready for the ball, and Emma was irritatingly out of sorts—one of the reasons being that she had earlier received a severe scolding from her mother for going riding in the rain and arriving back at the house soaked to the skin.

‘It isn’t fair,’ Emma wailed, pouting petulantly, bemoaning the fact that Edward Lampard, the young man she was enamoured with, would not be at the ball. Ever since he had left London three weeks ago she had been restive and impatient for him to return. Flopping into a chair beside her sister seated at the dressing table as she put the finishing touches to her toilette, she scowled her displeasure.

‘Please stop it, Emma. No good can come of your seeing that particular gentleman and I’m tired of discussing it. I’ve told you before that young man is a scoundrel in the making and will not be content until he’s compromised you so completely that your reputation will be beyond redemption. Then no gentleman of worth will want you,’ she finished severely.

Emma was stricken as she stared at the sister she loved and admired more than anyone else, whose strength and force of character were so much greater than her own. ‘Scoundrel?’ she protested heatedly, two high spots of colour burning on her cheeks. ‘How can you possibly know that?’

‘Because he happens to be the cousin of that renowned rake Captain William Lampard—a man with a string of broken hearts and shattered marital aspirations that would make any level-headed young woman steer well clear of him.’

‘That’s an awful thing to say, Cassy,’ Emma retorted indignantly. ‘Just because his cousin’s a renowned libertine of the first order does not mean to say that Edward will follow suit. He is a decent, upright and honourable man—a gentleman.’ There was a look of acute dismay in her eyes. She was bewildered by pain and confusion—anxious for Cassandra’s approval and agonisingly aware that she did not understand her sister’s antagonistic behaviour. ‘He loves me and values what I think and feel—and raises me above all other considerations.’

‘Well, with all these attributes he must be quite unique,’ Cassandra said drily, unconvinced by her sister’s defence of Edward Lampard. ‘But he should not be saying these things to you, and to respond to a gentleman’s attentions before his intentions are known is to risk the ridicule of others. I do wish you would behave with more propriety, Emma.’

‘Really, Cassy, considering your limited experience, I need no instructions from you on how to behave in society.’

‘It’s not society that concerns me and you know it. I worry that this preoccupation you have with Edward Lampard will frighten away all the eligible young men before you come out—which Aunt Elizabeth seems set upon—although why she allows you to go out in company so much when you have not yet made your curtsy is quite beyond me.’

Emma stared at her. Their ability to communicate was truly broken down. ‘Really, Cassy, what man could be more eligible than Edward?’

‘I’m only trying to warn you of the dangers of you showing favour to any one man before your début, and you must not allow yourself to be alone with him.’

‘Kindly keep your warnings to yourself. I am quite capable of taking care of myself.’

‘How do you know he isn’t merely toying with you, Emma?’

‘Because he cares for me. Anyone would think you’re jealous because you’ve failed to arouse any man’s passions yourself,’ Emma uttered petulantly.

‘Passions? My dear Emma, I sincerely hope Edward Lampard keeps his passions under control when he is with you.’

‘Cassy, will you please listen to me? I am in love. Really in love.’

‘You think you are. Whatever the sentiments that young man has created, I have no doubt that in time the true nature of his character will be revealed. Now please go and get ready before Aunt Elizabeth comes looking for us.’

‘You go to the ball, I don’t feel like it,’ Emma snapped petulantly.

Cassandra sighed and looked at her sister. Bold, open and loving, full of confidence and life, her green eyes set off by the lustrous gold of her hair, her nose pert and cute and her lips soft and full, at just eighteen years of age Emma had attended few social events. As a rule she looked forward to them and enjoyed them, always wearing her best gown and preening in front of the mirror like a bird of paradise determined on a grand display. Cassandra had thought tonight would be no exception, but she was wrong.

Emma had known Sir Edward Lampard for several weeks, meeting him at the odd soirée and the theatre, visiting neighbouring friends with Aunt Elizabeth in the mornings, and on outings in the park. Cassandra was not unaware that friendship of a certain kind was beginning to grow between them. At first she had considered it to be nothing more than youthful attraction, but Mr Lampard was persistent and always sought Emma’s company, which, fearing he was intent on compromising her vulnerable and naïve sister, gave Cassandra cause for concern—particularly since he was closely related to the notorious scoundrel Captain Lampard—the man who had promised her a donation for the institute and had apparently reneged on his word. Now the thought of Emma having anything to do with that family did not sit easy.

‘You’re mean, Cassy.’ Emma pouted. ‘I don’t know why you always have to say hateful things about Edward. You’re spiteful.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m just being realistic.’

Emma sulked for a moment longer, but, realising a fine pout would not sway her sister, she changed her tactics. ‘Very well, I’ll go and get ready. Perhaps his cousin, Captain Lampard, will tell me when Edward is to return.’

Cassandra swung round. ‘Captain Lampard? He’s coming here tonight?’

‘I believe so. I know Aunt Elizabeth invited him.’ Emma got up and, gathering up her skirts, flounced to the door. Ignoring her sister’s perplexed frown, she rushed on. ‘As well as being a magnificent combat officer, a man without fear and already a veteran of at least two campaigns—which Edward proudly told me about—he’s extremely handsome, too, by all accounts. I’ve never seen him myself, but all the ladies positively drool over him.’ She was the epitome of angelic goodness now her tirade was spent. With a delicious giggle she kicked the hem of her gown and opened the door.

‘Emma, wait.’ Getting up, Cassandra crossed to her sister. ‘I want to be at the institute early tomorrow, so I don’t intend being late to bed. I don’t think you should be late, either.’

‘I won’t be, and I know you need your rest to pander to all those uncivilised children and to scrub the floors.’ Perceiving that her thrust had hit its mark, Emma turned away.

Bruised by Emma’s manner, the thoughtless insults cutting her to the quick, Cassandra drew a long breath, striving to get control of her temper. When she spoke again she was more composed and put her hand on her sister’s arm.

‘Please don’t be angry, Emma. I’m sorry if I sounded harsh. Edward is handsome enough, I suppose, and I can understand why you are attracted to him. Such infatuations are common, but you are just eighteen and he is what—nineteen? You are an attractive and intelligent girl. Have you absolutely no idea of the harm this will do to your reputation? The way you have behaved with Edward Lampard is not a desirable mode of behaviour, and I know how much it upsets Mama.’

Cassandra’s mention of their beloved mama made Emma look contrite. Their mother was a hard-working woman who doted on her daughters. ‘I don’t mean to upset her, truly. I know she desires me to be more like you—to take an interest in the institute that was so dear to Papa’s heart—but I can’t. It’s just not in my nature.’

‘I know, Emma, and it doesn’t matter. I enjoy what I do; if I didn’t, I couldn’t do it, so I don’t blame you. Only I do wish you’d listen to me when I attempt to advise you. I do have your best interests at heart, you know. Now go and get ready.’

On a sigh she watched Emma go out. She could only hope that, beneath her indignation, Emma had sufficient common sense to heed her words.

Escorted by Aunt Elizabeth, when Cassandra and Emma entered the large, mirrored ballroom with French windows leading out on to balconies, it was already congested with over two hundred of the ton’s most illustrious and sophisticated personages. Dancing was in progress, with ladies dipping and swaying, talking and laughing with their partners. Around the room were enormous bouquets of flowers and the immense chandeliers, dripping with sparkling crystals, reflected the dazzling kaleidoscope of colourful gowns and jewels.

Lady Monkton, a widow of ten years and one of society’s most respected and influential ladies, was standing behind her charges like a protective mother hen, her chest puffed out, her back ramrod straight, her eyes proudly resting on her lovely girls.

There was little opportunity for the chaperons to relax and enjoy themselves at a ball, for they felt compelled to keep an eye on their charges at all times—to know who they were dancing with, and who they were dancing with too often.

Cassandra paused to casually overlook the throng to see who was present. Full purses would be plentiful. She never openly asked anyone for money—that would never do—but there were several here who were sympathetic to her cause and subscribed on a regular basis. She observed that Lord and Lady Ross were present. They were extremely wealthy, and Lady Faversham’s husband was an influential London property owner who had frequently made generous donations to the institute in the past. Cassandra glanced at Emma when she gasped.

‘Oh, look, Cassandra,’ she remarked excitedly. ‘It’s Edward—over there. I had no idea he was back in London—and see, he’s coming this way.’

Dismayed, Cassandra saw that the young man in question was indeed wending his way towards them, his blond hair falling attractively over his forehead and a smile on his lips. She saw the pleasure that lit up his youthful face, warming him with astonishing intensity.

She sighed, defeated. ‘So he is, Emma. I do so hope he is not going to be persistent and that you do not forget how to behave—and it is undignified, as well as unattractive, to stand with one’s mouth open,’ she chided, leaving her sister in Aunt Elizabeth’s charge and strolling to the edge of the crowded dance floor to accost and charm anyone she thought would benefit her cause.

Alluring, fiery, and with an unshakeable sense of her own worth, Cassandra was bright and unpredictable—often playful and engaging, just as often frostily aloof. She drew men to her side almost without benefit of conscious effort. But those who fell victim to her potent magnetism soon learned to their cost that the fascinating Miss Cassandra Greenwood, while accepting their masculine admiration as both her right and her pleasure, kept herself beyond their reach.

An uncertain future loomed ahead of her, this she knew, but she was going to meet it squarely in the eye. She would not be looked over like ripe fruit on a costermonger’s stall. There would be no inept youth with groping hands and wet kisses for her but a man, someone to love her with all the masculine authority at his command—experienced, bold and dashing—like Captain Lampard perhaps? She was shocked and instantly ashamed of the way her mind was working. Captain Lampard was totally unsuitable in every way and it was a ridiculous thought which she dismissed at once—but she could not deny it.

Chapter Two

Since his return to London and conscious that someone was trying to kill him—the reason why still eluded him—William had lost interest in society events. When the invitation to Lady Monkton’s birthday ball had arrived he’d given it a cursory glance and was tempted to instruct his secretary to send a polite refusal, despite any social occasion at Monkton House reputed as being exceptional. It was Edward, having returned to London from visiting friends in the country, who’d persuaded him to attend. In fact, young Edward seemed to be in an exuberant mood of late and William was curious as to the reason for it—a young lady, perhaps?

Arriving at Monkton House, he entered the ballroom, impatient to get the evening over with; since he had no desire to strike up a conversation with any of the people who seemed eager to talk to him, in particular the ladies who were delighted to see him back in London after so long an absence, he stepped into the shadows at the back of the room and lifted his champagne glass to his lips.

With one shoulder nonchalantly propped against a pillar, from his vantage point he idly watched the crowd. A smile curved his lips when Edward waltzed a small, exceedingly pretty and engaging young thing around the dance floor. She was dressed in a white silk gown with a blue sash tied at one side in two small bows. The look of complete absorption on both their faces as they gazed into each other’s eyes told him that here was the cause of Edward’s recent preoccupation.

Not best pleased, a troubled frown furrowed his brow. Anyone with eyes in their head could not fail to notice that almost invisible aura with which two young people in love seemed to surround themselves. William had certainly seen it, and because of Edward’s young age and William’s expectations for his cousin to enter his own regiment, he had strong objections to his cousin forming a match with any woman just then. Influenced by his hopes and fears, he would observe his cousin’s behaviour attentively and discourage any entanglement.

His eyes did a slow sweep of the room and came to rest on a young woman on the edge of the dance floor. He looked away, but his gaze was drawn back to her, for there was something about her that kindled his interest—something familiar—her stance, the tilt of her head. Recognition flowed across his face and pleasure lit his eyes, followed by pure masculine admiration as his gaze drifted over Miss Greenwood. The effect of seeing her surprised him.

Instead of the stiff and aloof young woman he remembered in an unflattering drab grey dress, she was now draped in the palest off-white gown, the satin clinging to her, hugging her waist and accentuating her rounded bosom. With regal poise, Miss Greenwood, a proud, striking young woman with large luminous eyes beneath thick dark lashes and exotically winged brows, moved serenely from group to group, untouched by the noise and bustle all around her.

Observing her with the impartiality of a connoisseur, looking for flaws that others would miss, he found only perfection. Her colouring was more vivid in this glamorous setting, William thought. Her hair was the same vibrant honey-gold glistening with innumerable shades beneath the light of the chandeliers. A delicate necklace of diamonds lay against her throat in perfect complement to the gown.

She belonged in beautiful gowns and glittering jewels, he decided. They suited her far better than the sombre grey. But who was she really and what was she doing among the cream of London society? He continued to stand in the shadows, admiring the alluringly beautiful woman, but far more intrigued by the indefinable but unmistakable presence that made her stand out so clearly from the rest.

‘So, William, I trust you will enlighten me as to what your thoughts are as you look at the thoroughly enchanting and delectable Miss Cassandra Greenwood with that possessive gleam in your eyes. Damned engrossed you are.’

William turned and regarded Sir Charles Grisham, decked out in rich peacock-bright satins and velvets—obviously chosen to create an eyecatching display—with a bland expression. His manner was so indolent that he always gave the impression of being half-asleep.

‘My thoughts are my own affair, Charles—though favourable,’ he added with a cynical curl to his lips and an appreciative gleam in his eyes.

‘Singled her out for yourself, have you?’ Charles said in a bored drawl, raising his jewelled quizzing glass the better to study the lady under discussion, the rings on his fingers glinting in the light from the chandeliers. ‘Can’t say that I blame you, and if you are contemplating making her one of your amusing bed warmers, then you are going to be disappointed. Many have tried and all have failed. There are certain things you should know about that adorable creature, since you’ve been absent from the ton pursuing those damned Frenchies in the Peninsula for the past few years.’

‘Go on,’ William said, lifting his arrogant brows and waiting, his look both suspicious and intrigued. His curiosity was piqued, but he’d be damned if he let Charles see it. Well acquainted with Charles Grisham, who in spite of his affectations was one of the most intelligent and erudite of the Corinthians, William knew perfectly well that the man was one of the most influential members of the ton. At twenty-eight, fair haired, of a slender athletic build and fastidiously tailored, he was much envied for his ability to tie a neckcloth into perfect folds. He had an acid wit that accepted no boundaries and was able to shred a reputation in minutes, when he chose a human target. William deduced from his remarks about Miss Greenwood that he had made her just that.

After helping himself to a pinch of snuff, Charles went on to regale William with Miss Greenwood’s attributes and shortcomings, much to William’s irritation. If Charles were to be believed, the lady was as cold as an iceberg and set with wilful thorns—one of nature’s disagreeable blunders, in fact.

‘As a result she has been dubbed the Ice Maiden. And the unkind—though appropriate, some would say—sobriquet has stuck. It’s unfortunate since the filly has spirit. She should prove highly entertaining in a chase. Miss Greenwood is one of those rare eccentrics who attend society events and rarely dances except to please herself—which makes her something of a challenge to the likes of me. In fact, she doesn’t go out in society at all unless it’s to tout for funds for that wretched institute of hers—you know about that?’

William nodded, languidly listening, turning his sardonic gaze back to Miss Greenwood at the same moment as she bestowed a melting smile on a smitten elderly gentleman who was handing her a glass of champagne.

‘Lady Monkton—her aunt—takes an understanding view on the matter. Some might think it admirable—personally, I consider it a damn waste of both time and a beautiful woman. Her mama and Lady Monkton let her do exactly as she likes with relative impunity, the result being she has become an object of ridicule.’

William’s brows lifted imperturbably. ‘Which in your opinion she rightly deserves.’

‘Exactly.’

William looked at Miss Greenwood with renewed interest. ‘She is Lady Monkton’s niece, you say?’

‘Not quite. Her mother and Lady Monkton are cousins, but she has taken on the role of aunt to the two Misses Greenwood. The grand lady took both Cassandra and her sister under her wing when their father died. Intending to give both girls a Season, she was disappointed when the older girl declined—being of the unconventional type, if you see what I mean. It’s hard to believe that any man’s hands have ever touched that delectably soft skin of hers—and I doubt she knows what it feels like to be kissed.’

Though he would dearly like to silence Charles, from William’s own dealings with Miss Greenwood it was obvious that what he was saying was mostly true.

‘Any unattached bachelor who is foolish enough to show an interest in her, she sends packing.’

‘Including you, Charles, which is why you are so ready to point out her faults to me.’

Sir Charles Grisham lifted his arrogant brows, drawling, ‘Including me.’ He admitted, chuckling softly, ‘Indeed, I confess to having been afflicted with a touch of frostbite. Being a notorious rake, I naturally assumed I could seduce her—to initiate her into the art of love. It did nothing for my self-esteem when she added me to her string of rejections. Now you are back in town I can see that I and every other male smitten with the charming Miss Cassandra Greenwood will have to look to our laurels. With your breeding and looks—not to mention your wealth—your potent attraction to women has always been a topic of much scintillating feminine gossip. You do seem to have an extraordinary effect on them, William, but I very much doubt even you will melt that particular iceberg.’

Mild cynicism marred the lean handsomeness of William’s features as he refused to be drawn on what his thoughts might be concerning the young woman who had in all probability saved his life.

‘By the by,’ Grisham went on. ‘I saw Mark in town recently—upholding the family name while you’ve been chasing the Frenchies. I have to say he doesn’t improve with age—still the same old bore he was at Cambridge. With so much starch in his veins, it’s a miracle the man can sit down. It’s difficult to believe he’s your cousin. Is it true that he jumps to the tune of his wife?’

William smiled mildly, knowing of Grisham’s intense dislike of Mark—in fact, Mark’s austere, intolerant attitude did seem to put most people’s backs up. There were certain things about Mark that irritated even him—and the same could be said of his acerbic wife, Lydia. But being possessed of a fierceness to protect any member of his family, which had sadly dwindled to just Mark and Edward during the past five years, with the demise of both his parents and older brother in a riding accident, William would not therefore, speak against his cousin.

‘If he does, then it is entirely their own affair. I couldn’t have left my affairs in better hands, Charles. My cousin is a man of steadfast character and unimpeachable honour, and I would be grateful if you did not cast aspersions.’

‘I applaud your loyalty—though in my opinion he doesn’t deserve it. Loyalty is a rare virtue in either sex these days.’

‘Besides, Mark is next in line to the title and the estate—unless I marry and produce an heir.’

‘And is there a possibility of that on the horizon?’ Charles enquired, his eyes lighting with obvious interest, for with this devilishly handsome lord off the social scene, the likes of himself and his associates would stand in better favour with the ladies.

William’s eyes suddenly glinted with amusement. ‘Marriage is not high on my list of things to do just now. When I feel inclined to pledge my hand in order to produce an heir,’ he replied with grim humour, ‘I’m sure you will be one of the first to know.’

‘I shall be journeying to Hertfordshire tomorrow—I’m to stay with my aunt for a few days. I’ve neglected her disgracefully of late,’ Charles confessed. ‘I’m quite fond of the old dear.’

‘And her money,’ William uttered pointedly.

‘I admit it does hold some attraction,’ he said without shame. ‘I shall be close to Carlow Park and I’ve arranged to ride over to see Mark—though I intend the visit to be of short duration.’

‘Then, feeling as you do, why do you visit him at all?’

‘Two rather splendid horses you have in the stables—saw them on the hunting field in January and I was impressed. A chestnut full of quality took my fancy, although the grey was damned fine, too. I heard Mark’s selling them, so I approached him with an interest to buying one. He invited me to Carlow Park to look them over.’

William’s expression was bland when he turned and fixed him with a quizzical stare. ‘And these are Mark’s horses to sell?’

‘Damned if I know—although I don’t suppose they are, seeing as they’re stabled at Carlow Park.’

‘Their names?’

‘Monarch and Franciscan.’

William’s expression hardened. On learning of his brother’s death, from Spain he had asked Mark to keep an eye on the estate until his return. He hadn’t given him carte blanche to do as he pleased and he felt a faint stirring of antagonism over Mark’s having usurped his position by selling off his horses—in particular Franciscan, his brother’s horse. Although, on second thought, perhaps it had more to do with Lydia than Mark.