A Candlelit Regency Christmas. Louise Allen
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I am not Lord Weybourn’s lover.’ Tess tried to stand up straight, find some authority in her voice. ‘I had an accident, hurt my ankle. He helped me, just as I said.’ And I do not want to be here, with you, you judgemental old witch, she thought as a spark of anger burned through the confused fog of misery. My antecedents, you horrible woman? Two parents who loved each other, who loved me? I am illegitimate—how is that my fault?
‘Lord Weybourn? Hah!’ Mrs Wolsey said. ‘One knows all about the likes of him. A society rakehell, I have no doubt.’
‘How does one know this?’ Tess enquired. How dare this woman judge Alex? ‘I hardly think you would move in the same circles as he does, ma’am.’ The tail end of her temper was almost out of her grasp now.
‘You insolent girl,’ Mother Superior snapped. ‘You will leave at once.’
‘To cast a sinner out into the night is hardly a very Christian act.’ Tess abandoned the effort to be civil, hobbled to the door and, with her hands full of the portmanteau and cat basket, somehow got it open. ‘But I would not stay here now if you begged me. Good evening to you both.’
Behind her she heard a small bell ringing violently and the sound of Mrs Wolsey’s voice. She seemed to be gibbering with anger. Tess reached the front door before Sister Porteress caught up with her, flung back the bolts, stepped over the threshold and left the door swinging on its hinges. Moments later it slammed behind her with emphatic finality.
‘And I hope your righteous indignation keeps you warm at night,’ Tess muttered. In front of her was Golden Square, a white-stone statue at its centre glimmering faintly in the light from the lamps set outside the houses. Men muffled up against the dank mist hurried past, a cab rattled over the cobbles on the far side. A clock, quite close, struck nine.
Tess put down her luggage to pull her cuffs over her knuckles. Her mittens felt as though they had been knitted out of thin cotton, not wool, and her toes were already numb.
A woman walked slowly down the side of the square, so Tess picked up her things again and limped across to her. ‘Excuse me, can you tell me if there is anywhere near here where I can get lodgings? Only—’
‘Get off my patch,’ the woman hissed, thrusting her face close to Tess’s. She smelt of spirits and strong perfume. ‘Unless you want your pretty face marked.’
‘No, no, I don’t.’ Tess backed away and the woman stalked past with a swish of petticoats, only to slow to a hip-swinging saunter before she reached the corner.
‘Evening, my dear.’ A male voice behind her made her jump. ‘Feeling friendly, are you?’
‘No, I am not.’ Tess whirled round. ‘Go away or I’ll...set my cat on you.’ There was a feline shriek of indignation from the swaying basket and the man stepped aside and walked off hastily.
‘Sorry, Noel,’ she murmured. ‘We can’t stay here, it isn’t safe.’
Perhaps if she found a hackney carriage the cab driver would take her to a respectable lodging house. There didn’t seem to be much alternative. If she stayed on the streets she would either be assaulted, taken by some brothel keeper or she would freeze to death.
Tess slipped her hand though the slit in the side of her skirt seam and touched the reassurance of her purse. Thanks to Alex she still had the stagecoach fare from Margate to London in her pocket and some guilders that she could probably change at a bank in the morning. They were all that stood between her and penury, so she just had to pray that lodgings were cheap.
‘What do we have here?’ A man’s voice, so close behind her, had her spinning round. There were two of them.
‘Good evening.’ She tried for a confident tone. ‘Could you direct me to a cab rank, please?’
‘We can direct you, missy, that’s for sure.’ There was a chuckle as one of them moved round behind her. ‘Right down our street.’
* * *
On a cold, dank evening there was nothing quite like the simple pleasure of one’s own chair, by one’s own fireside with a bottle of best cognac to hand. Alex stretched out stockinged feet to the blaze and swirled the glass under his nose. He had the rest of the evening before him to digest a good meal, catch up on his correspondence, read a book...worry about Tess in that bleak convent.
No wide hearth with unlimited coals for her. Certainly no brandy to keep her warm after a plain dinner. He shifted, searching for a comfortable position in a chair that had always been perfect before. She was used to convent life. Just because he’d hate it didn’t mean that she wouldn’t be feeling as though she was home again.
And surely they’d find her a good position soon, one where she wouldn’t be run ragged by some acid-tongued old woman or harassed by her charges’ older brothers. Who did he know who might be able to employ her? The problem was, he didn’t know any respectable matrons well enough to ask them to employ an unknown young woman without them leaping to conclusions based on his reputation, not Tess’s. One look at that oval face with the expressive blue eyes, that soft, vulnerable mouth...
She was none of his business. Alex gave himself a mental shake, sat up and reached for the pile of letters his secretary, William Bland, had produced when he’d gotten home.
‘The financial matters are all docketed and on your desk, my lord. There is nothing of pressing importance. There are a few invitations despite the fact that your return date was uncertain.’ He’d handed over a stack of gilt-edged cards. ‘And these items appear to be of a personal nature and have not been opened.’
By personal, William meant he had separated out all those with fancy-coloured wafer seals and any that had a whiff of perfume about them. They could wait, too, Alex decided, dropping them back on to the table beside his glass and picking up the invitations again. No, no, possibly, definitely, no...
There was the sound of the knocker. Curious. No one, surely, knew he was home yet? Alex squared off the pile of pasteboard rectangles and listened to the murmur of voices from the hall. Because he was away from home so often he did not trouble to employ a butler, and MacDonald, the younger of the two footmen, was on duty tonight.
The caller was still talking. Alex swung his feet down off the fender and pushed them into his shoes. Damn it, MacDonald was inexperienced, but even he should be able to get rid of unwanted visitors in less time than this. Alex stood up as the door of the study opened.
‘A Miss Ellery has called, my lord.’ MacDonald, who had a fine set of freckles to go with his red hair, was blushing painfully. ‘I have told her that you are not at home, my lord, but she says she will sit on the front step until you are. So I have seated her in the front room because she does seem to be a lady, my lord. Only—’
Hell, what had gone wrong with the confounded female now? Alex told himself he was exasperated, not pleased. Not anxious. Certainly not pleased. ‘Show her in, MacDonald.’
‘Miss Ellery, my lord.’ MacDonald opened the door.
There wasn’t a female member of staff living in, either, Alex recalled. The scullery maid and Hannah Semple, his cook/housekeeper, came in by the day. Damn, this got stickier the more he thought about—
‘Hell’s teeth, Tess, what’s happened to you?’
She stood there on the threshold swaying slightly, the basket in one hand, her bag clutched in the other. Her hair was half-down and a great bruise was coming up on her left cheek. Tess set down her luggage as he started towards her. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you at this hour, my lord. Only...’
Her eyes rolled up and her legs gave way as he reached her. Alex caught her now-familiar weight in his arms, laid her down on the chaise longue against the wall and bit down hard on the stream of oaths that fought for escape. ‘MacDonald, send Byfleet down with the medical kit, tell Phipps to go for Dr Holt and you get round to Mrs Semple’s lodgings and tell her I need her back here to spend the night. Go!’