Scandalous Innocent (17 page)

Ransome offered her his arm up the carved stairway, smiling secretively at his host’s reaction, which he’d been reasonably sure of. They came to the gallery from where the Earl had looked down into the hall, where more ancestral portraits hung against a patterned turquoise wallpaper. The Earl stood back, looking up at a young couple in the costume of the late sixteen hundreds, the pale sheen of silk folds, frills of lace, satin ribbons and velvet. And the statutory King Charles spaniel. They were a darkly handsome pair, the man wearing a sword-sash across his coat, the lady holding a gold pendant with a moon on it, their free hands tenderly entwined. Two children nestled against them, a small serious-looking boy and a girl with a mop of black ringlets.

‘Sir Leo Hawkynne,’ said the Earl, ‘was a Scot. He was secretary to the Duke of Lauderdale, who married the Countess of Dysart, one of my ancestors. And this is his lady, Phoebe. Now, do you see anything of interest here, Madame Donville? A family resemblance, perhaps?’

It was uncanny, she thought, to be looking back at herself in period dress, the same oval face framed by raven-black ringlets that both of them had tried to tie back with limited success. Dated 1684, the portrait represented almost one hundred and twenty years, several generations, yet the features were almost identical.

‘I had no idea,’ she whispered. ‘I knew there had always been Leos and Phoebes in our family, but no one ever mentioned that the originals were husband and wife. I must admit that it gives me a very…
very
…strange feeling to be looking at my forebears, my lord. You must also get the same feeling when you see your ancestors looking back at you.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, I can never get away with anything while the family are watching every move. But that portrait was painted for the Duchess who was apparently very fond of them both. Which is why you’ll not have seen it before. I believe they had four children. Come to think of it, there was a Sir Leo Hawkin in my regiment, the 6th Foot. Could that have been…?’

‘My father, my lord. He was killed when I was very young.’

‘An excellent man, too. And you have brothers, do you,
madame?’

‘Leon is the eldest. I’ve brought something of his to show you, my lord.’

‘So you all grew up fatherless? Now that
is
a tragedy. Show me,
madame.’
He led the way to the window side of the gallery where he seated Phoebe on an enormous velvet-covered footstool while he and Ransome perched beside her, receiving the unframed watercolour from her as if he had already perceived its value. Angling it towards the light, he studied it without speaking, giving Phoebe the chance to watch how his mobile features softened over the palette of colours, the mingling of pigments, the delicate draughtsmanship. His hair, fine and white, was short enough to show the pink scalp beneath, the folds of his face and the delicate lines following a merry path rather than a downtrodden one. Ransome had told her that his friend was a keen amateur artist, and a connoisseur, a term that applied to many men of too much wealth and time. But of this man’s genuineness she had no doubts.

His was not a noisy kind of appreciation, however. He nodded, looked across at Lord Ransome, and nodded again. ‘A real painter,’ he said. ‘A great talent. Why have we not heard of him, I wonder? Does he exhibit?’

The three heads pored over the painting in an intimate moment that somehow brought together so many loose strands of Phoebe’s life, holding them ready to be tied. The Earl would have to be told of Leon’s circumstances, and hers too, before they had any right to expect an offer of help from him. Yet having reached the point where someone, at last, had recognised Leon’s one and only talent, the moment for Phoebe was so charged with emotion after seeing and meeting the first Phoebe that she found it difficult to speak. One hand rested on the gathered bodice of her green-striped gown and pressed, trying to still the pounding there. Her lips parted to breathe in deeply, settling the words into line. She could scarcely stifle the sob.

The Earl saw her struggle. Tenderly, he laid a gnarled hand over her arm. ‘Yes, I see,
madame.
Talent doesn’t always walk in a straight orderly line, does it? All we can hope for is to have a share in it while it still burns. While your brother lives, then there is hope. Will you…can you… tell me about it?’

So she did, sparing nothing except the shabby facts of how Ferry House came to be owned by the man who sat beside her. About Leon’s gambling and drinking, however, and about Lady Templeman’s apparent inability to help her eldest son, she told him all, though whether that was more distressing than his wasted talents she did not venture an opinion.

None the less, it soon became clear to the Earl that the youngest sister of Leon Hawkin owed him a great debt of gratitude and that she had been brought to Ham House to seek help for him. For the generous, able, and well-connected Earl of Dysart, this posed no problem except whether—or not—the young man in question would accept his offers of patronage and a cottage on the estate, if he wanted it. That he would need some kind of rehabilitation went without saying, if he were to recommence his painting. The Earl would be only too happy to help him.

The practicalities were discussed at greater length as Phoebe and Lord Ransome walked slowly through the Fountain Garden on their way to the Orangery. A high brick wall afforded them some privacy from the house, where a fountain rattled joyfully, providing a bath for a queue of birds. ‘I shall go to London tomorrow,’ he said, ‘to find him and bring him back.’

‘I know you said your friend would want to help,’ said Phoebe, untying the ribbons of her bonnet, ‘but his offers are
unbelievably
generous. Commissions. A place to live, rent free. Could this be because he’s found a descendant of the Hawkynne family, do you think?’

‘I doubt it. It’s because he’s like that. He’ll help anyone out, especially artists. He’s a great philanthropist, too. He keeps open doors here at Ham, all the time. His servants idolise him.’

Phoebe pulled off her bonnet, swinging it by its ribbons. Her hair had caught on some of the rough bits and now, instead of being neatly bundled into a chignon, the curls bounced out like escaped watch-springs. Walking along the shady parts where the trees overhung the wall, she became aware of Lord Ransome’s closeness, his scrutiny. She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Why are you doing this for Leon?’ she said, quietly. ‘You were the one to benefit by his gambling and to find little sympathy for him.’

‘Oh, for all the wrong reasons,’ he said, without conviction.

‘Not to make amends, then? Not guilt?’

Swiftly and without warning, he took both her shoulders in his hands, pulling her towards him with a suddenness she had no time to evade. Her arms had nowhere to go, bonnet in one hand, reticule in the other, her head pushed back and held under his, her skin already responding to the dangerous warmth of him, the hard pressure of his thighs enclosing her. With a hunger she had not anticipated, his mouth sought hers and tasted greedily, as if he could wait no longer to make his claim on her, this time without the excuse of anger for her harsh words.

His hands slid quickly across her waist and shoulders, fingers sinking deep into her hair, twisting her under his mouth, and the fire deep in her belly roared to meet his like a forest blaze, searing and scorching. Whether it was the emotion of her discovery, relief for Leon, or simply a release of denied longings, Phoebe had no way of knowing, but now it was as if, for the first time, the deep underground well of her desire burst upwards to flood her reasoning with an unstoppable energy, demanding whatever he had to give, without restraint.

She had taunted and rebuked herself, since his reappearance, about how reprehensible he was, how she could
never
want him, how imaginary her sneaking lust for him was. But now, like this, held hard against his chest, her body would take no more of her cowardly lies and rebelling against her anger and caution, bent into him and softened, pressing her aching breasts against him, giving him her mouth to search, explore and plunder. Eagerly. Wantonly.

She felt the steel of his arms shift across her, his hand splay across her buttocks, his mouth lift from hers just enough to speak. ‘For you, woman,’ he said, hoarse with emotion. ‘For no one but you. Not for guilt, either. I have none. Only a need for you, that’s all. Expect no apologies. When I find what I want, I take it. I’ve found you, and you’ll be mine.’

Shards of fear mingled with her excitement. Hard words. Possession, not love. Ruthlessness, not tenderness. She had what he wanted, and he had what she wanted, but bargaining was out of the question when he had the upper hand, and already he was winning. Like any woman, her perfectly understandable objections melded with her body’s hunger for loving, and because men’s minds are not tuned to exactly the same pitch, he stood no chance of understanding her when she struggled furiously against him, balking at the reasons for his desire. It mattered. Beating his back with her fists, her submission turned into instant attack.

‘Just like that!’ she hissed, furiously.
‘You’ll be mine!
No, I
won’t,
my lord. You didn’t
find
me. I was not lost. And I won’t be
taken.
I am not any man’s for the taking. My needs are not so simple as a tavern girl’s. Now let me go!’

He did let her go. Almost. Keeping hold of one wrist in a grip of steel, he made her listen to him while she, with head turned defiantly aside, was somehow relieved to know that he was not in the least bewildered by her about-turn after letting down her guard in a moment of weakness. ‘Listen to me first. No…stand still…and
listen!
Your feathers are ruffled, but that’s no reason to deny what you feel. All right, you expected…would have preferred…me to talk of love, but would you have believed me? No, I thought not. So what I said was the honest truth, no more, no less. I thought you could deal with that.’ His voice softened. ‘You’re a woman, Phoebe, not a girl. There’s no need to be angry with yourself for letting it all out, once in a while.’

‘Don’t patronise me. I didn’t
let it out.
It
came
out. I had no choice. And if you think I do that once in a while, then let me put you straight on that, my lord. Nine years is not a
while,
it’s an eternity. My husband made love to me three times in all. Yes, less than the fingers of one hand. He had a mistress in France, I discovered afterwards. He could hardly wait to get back to her, after he’d done what he needed to with me, an ignorant girl of sixteen.’ The words came out in gasps, as if she’d been running, and by the time she had finished, his arms were once again around her, his hands smoothing over the green silk pelisse.

‘Don’t pity me,’ she said into his shirt-front. ‘I don’t need anyone’s pity, least of all yours. I have my daughter. And my life. I don’t think I care any more, after this, whether my family discover the truth about him or not. Not one of them has lifted a finger to help us. They deserve to be shocked. Shocked to the core. It now seems that I have to turn to complete strangers for help, my lord. You, and the Earl. Ironic, isn’t it? Complete strangers.’

‘Well, from now on,’ he said, gently brushing back the coils of hair, ‘I’m not a stranger to you. I’m in your life, and I’m staying. But you need more time. I can see that now. If I’d known what you’ve just told me, I’d not have rushed you into a decision. So if you prefer to be my mistress for a while, then I shall accept that. Shock your family to your heart’s content, it’ll make no difference to my plans for you. Heaven knows, I’ve spent most of my life shocking people. I’m a dab hand at it. Come to me for advice on it, sweet nymph.’

Her shaky huffs of laughter made him smile and hold her closer, and for a few more moments she was content to stay there in his arms, listening to the tinkle of water and wings splashing, and somewhere the whinny of a horse. ‘You’re quite determined then,’ she said, drawing away at last.

‘Oh, yes, Madame Donville. Never more so.’

‘Not shocked by my behaviour just now?’

‘On the contrary, I’m delighted by it. I intend to provoke you again.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ll find that at all difficult, my lord.’

‘Excellent. I look forward to it.’

‘That’s not what I meant. I think we’re getting into deep waters here. You were supposed to be showing me the Earl’s newly planted Orangery.’

However, round the corner of the archway into the garden, a slender figure came to greet them with apologetic smiles, a rustle of brown-figured silk, and a Paisley shawl slithering off her narrow shoulders. Phoebe caught it just in time and handed it back, already smiling.

‘Buck Ransome!’ the lady piped in a reedy voice. ‘And Madame Donville. I could not be there when you arrived, but trust a husband like mine not to offer you tea. Come inside, dears. It’s waiting for you in the drawing room.’ Chattering like a bird, she pecked the Viscount on each cheek, holding out a frail hand as if to make sure Phoebe did not run away.

‘Lady Dysart, allow me to present Madame Donville to you. Phoebe, my dear, this beautiful lady is the Countess of Dysart.’

Nobody, but
nobody,
had ever called her ‘Phoebe, my dear’ in such an elegant and lover-like manner, and the sound touched her heart and plucked it like a harp string, vibrating its resonance through her body to comfort it. She made her curtsy in a daze, already loving the sweet elderly lady who had come out to find them instead of sending a servant, who took her by the hand like a mother with her daughter and stumbled over the grass until Ransome drew her hand through his arm like a son. Phoebe thought she had never met a more delightful couple than the Earl and Countess of Dysart.

Having made his wife aware of his newest discovery in Leon Hawkin, direct descendant of Sir Leo and Lady Phoebe, the Earl talked animatedly about his other young protege, John Constable, who was doing work for him at the house in London, about his friend Sir Joshua Reynolds who’d had a house built up on Richmond Hill before his death ten years ago, about the Gainsboroughs he’d bought and the Van Dycks he’d inherited. About his own talent for painting he was less forthcoming, and it was Anna Maria, the Countess, who showed them his portfolio of watercolours in the library.