Midsummer Eve at Rookery End (13 page)

Tomorrow he would ask to see her – alone – and tell her he loved her. After that, his heart and his future would be in her hands. She would accept him or she wouldn’t. At least he’d be out of this hellish limbo, although if it was the latter, he’d be pitched into a lifelong hell.

A weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders. He knew what he had to do and nothing was going to stop him.

But disaster was waiting in the wings.

When he awoke the next day, got out of bed and limped over to the dressing table where hot water had been left in readiness for his shave, his stubble-covered jaw dropped at what he saw in the mirror.

He was covered in spots.

- 2 -

Simon couldn’t believe that a man nudging thirty could fall victim to so childish a complaint as chickenpox. He looked terrible and felt worse. Vivid red blisters were breaking out on every inch of him that he could see - and where he couldn’t, if the urge to scratch was any measure.

He couldn’t go out in public like this. It was too humiliating.

There was nothing else for it but to pack up and rusticate until he recovered. So he travelled to his property in Shropshire and waited. And waited. It was, the doctor pronounced, a severe case but not an extraordinary one, which was a relief to Simon since a severe attack seemed bad enough.

He sent a short, formal note informing the Chesneys that he was indisposed without revealing the embarrassing nature of his ailment, and received a similar missive in reply, sending best wishes for his speedy recovery.

It was the best he could hope for in the circumstances and at least there was no mention of the two things he dreaded most – that Helen had also developed chickenpox or she had accepted an offer from the duke.

Thoughts of her made Simon’s road to recovery bearable. Fortunately, his face remained unmarked but he grew increasingly impatient with his weakened state. For some reason the illness had increased the pain in his leg which now ached abominably night and day. He brooded on the injustice of fate intervening in so cruel a fashion, but he gritted his teeth, stiffened his resolve and fought his way back to health.

Returning to London after what seemed an age, he presented himself at the Chesney townhouse. He was shown into the drawing room, only to discover that he was not alone.

In his absence Mrs Chesney had developed a passion for culture and the arts. He discovered that on most afternoons her townhouse was full of painters, novelists and poets. Among the latter, Lord Orlo Pembroke, author of
The Soul’s Desire
, was a constant member of the crowd.

A wealthy man of insinuating manners and the son of the Duke of Wyton, it seemed Orlo Pembroke had appealed to Mrs Chesney from the outset. To Simon’s horror, poet appreciation fever seemed to have extended to Helen, to most of the other ladies in the room and perhaps even the rest of London.

It was not hard to understand why. Lord Pembroke was a tall, dark, sickeningly handsome man, with large dark eyes, full of soulful expression. And two good legs.

Helen seemed more subdued and distant than before. Simon told himself he must be imagining it and set out to snatch some private conversation with her. It proved impossible; Orlo Pembroke seemed to have taken over Mrs Chesney’s role as duenna and he stuck to Helen’s side like a leech.

When Simon cornered her by the refreshment table, all she managed was to smile faintly and tell him she was glad to see he was better before Lord Pembroke appeared at her side like a spectre at the feast, offering to explain John Donne’s
Woman’s Constancy
.

After that Simon had to endure the poisonous sight of Lord Pembroke and Helen together on a distant sofa, no doubt comparing iambic pentameters.

The rest was pure torture. Simon was appalled – at least he’d had a ghost of a chance against the elderly and, fortunately, now absent duke, but how could a tongue-tied, love-lorn, wounded ex-soldier compete against a bloody handsome poet?

Every afternoon for a week he went to the Chesney townhouse and every afternoon he had to watch Lord Pembroke whispering verse into Helen’s ear. By the end of it, he wanted to take Shakespeare’s collected love sonnets and shove them down his rival’s aristocratic throat.

Thankfully it was the annual Midsummer Eve ball at Rookery End tomorrow night. He’d never attended the famous event before because his military duties had kept him away but he was travelling to Surrey later on, and he knew Helen had been invited too. For once, Mrs Chesney would be absent – she was going to visit her sick sister in Bath.

Simon couldn’t wait. He was determined to be alone with Helen at last and it would be the perfect setting for a marriage proposal.

He set off for Rookery End, his mood brighter, but when he strolled into the entrance hall of the Allingham’s country mansion that evening, he felt like he’d been hit in the gut by the French artillery corps.

Helen had already arrived, but beside her stood Lord Pestilence himself, Orlo Pembroke.

- 3 -

So engrossed had Simon been in these recollections that the first intimation he was no longer alone in the room was a genteel cough. The sound recalled him to the present and he looked around.

Behind him stood Ralston Thorne, his valet, or to be precise, his temporary valet, assigned to him after he’d arrived at Rookery End by Miles Allingham, who had winked mysteriously and said Thorne was a bit of a rogue but Simon might find him useful.

“Your ‘ot water, sir,” said Thorne, austerely but not unkindly.

Ralston Thorne was a man – although ‘man’ seemed scarcely adequate for such an imperious, omniscient fellow – of medium height, solid build and slicked back dark hair touched with grey at the temples. His manner was restrained and dignified, his voice soft and grave, but his hauteur was such that he made Simon feel as if he’d been caught laughing in church. His superior gaze could surely quell a royal duke into good behaviour.

“I thought you might be hup early, sir, so I took the liberty of bringing it an hour earlier than you said.”

Simon didn’t reply. He felt a little dazed. There was a softness in Thorne’s voice he’d not detected before and it confused him.

“Might I speak with you, sir?”

“Yes,” said Simon, still struggling with this new, apparently humbler Thorne.

“This is not something I would normally do,” began Thorne. He paused, his gimlet gaze running over Simon with calm but ruthless efficiency, as if assessing something.

Despite his misery, Simon was intrigued. “Go on.”

Thorne bowed. “I should like to speak to you on a somewhat intimate subject – Miss Helen Chesney.”

Simon’s mouth and eyes opened slowly.

“If I can put it like this, you are going the wrong way about things, sir.”

Simon’s jaw dropped another inch. “Now look here, you damned impudent—”

Thorne held up one hand like a Roman emperor about to address the senate. “Women, sir,” he continued, “can be peculiar creatures. I have had, if I may say so, many hopporunities to observe their curious ways. Miss Helen reminds me of Lady Annabella Walsingham, whom I had ‘onour of knowing when I worked for her father, Lord Tindale. Lady Annabella was a romantic young lady, very fond of poetry. She would sit for hours listening to the young tutor Mr Hammond reading Bryon, which was no part of ‘is duties, Mr Hammond being employed by his lordship to teach his young sons Latin and Greek and such like. Young ladies are partial to Lord Bryon’s verses, sir. Lord Orlo Pembroke was reading
She Walks in Beauty
to Miss Helen in the drawing room last night when I passed through, if I’m not mistaken.”

Simon groaned. “I don’t know what the devil it was, but she seemed to be enjoying it.”

“Lady Annabella was addicted to
She Walks in Beauty.
Mr Hammond was reading a portion of that poem to her when her father walked in on them. Lord Tindale sent Mr Hammond packing the next day, but I could ‘ave told him what would happen if ‘e did that. Two days later, Lady Annabella slips away and elopes to Gretna with Mr Hammond.” He nodded. “As I say, you are going about things with Miss Helen the wrong way, sir.”

“But—”

“When Lord Pembroke was reading to Miss Helen last night, you were trying to engage her attention,” explained Thorne with patience. “It’s not the way. Far better to leave them alone together. Let Miss Helen see so much of the bard, and only him, that she will grow tired. My advice, sir, is to let Miss Helen ‘ave all the wants of Lord Pembroke and his poems.”

Simon was astonished. Normally he would be furious at having his private affairs discussed, but Thorne’s stately, dignified air, measured speech and unexpected concern put a different light on things.

A spark of gratitude flared in Simon. The man meant well.

“I’m obliged to you, Thorne—”

Thorne gave a deprecating cough. “My interest is not entirely unselfish, sir. Every year at the ball, in the servants’ hall, we run what I would call a matrimonial sweepstake. The names of all the gentlemen attending are put in a hat and drawn. Should that gentleman get engaged to any lady attending the ball, the pool of money goes to the drawer of his name. If no engagement occurs, the money is carried over to the following year. This year, I ‘ave drawn you, sir, and since the pool is of considerable value, I am anxious to win it. Hence me taking the liberty, sir, to put my knowledge of the female sex at your disposal. I believe you will find it sound, and recommend you follow it. Thank you, sir.”

Simon’s gratitude was replaced by annoyance. Had circumstances been different, he might have found Thorne’s admission amusing but the strain of recent weeks, his aching leg plus the final straw of finding Lord Pembroke at Rookery End had shortened his temper considerably. The thought of himself and Helen being the subject of downstairs gossip and wagers choked him. Anger robbed him of words and he could only utter a gurgle of stupefaction.

Thorne gave him an indulgent look. “There’s no need to thank me, sir. Look at it this way – we are working together for a common purpose and any ‘elp I can offer is freely given. And now I think you should finish dressing. Breakfast will be served shortly. Thank you, sir.”

And with that he glided silently out of the room.

- 4 -

After a meagre breakfast, Helen strolled with Lord Pembroke on the Rookery End terrace. Vaguely aware he was reciting Donne’s
The Sunne Rising,
she let the words flow over her while her mind wandered elsewhere. She couldn’t deny Lord Pembroke’s attentions were flattering - he was a very attractive man, if a little too insistent – and her mother considered him excellent husband material but there was something missing.

Captain Russell’s features were seared into her mind. Whenever she closed her eyes, all she could see was his blue, brooding gaze. Why? He was a dark-haired, muscular man with impressive shoulders, good-looking in a harsh, angular sort of way, but not as obviously handsome or smooth-talking as Orlo Pembroke, or as wealthy as her ducal admirer.

He didn’t reveal his devastating boyish smile very often and for a clever and usually articulate man, he suffered from bouts of silence. At first Helen thought his harsh experiences of war had affected him mentally as well as physically, as it had others. That was until she realised these silences occurred only when he was with her.

Worse still there were times he’d appeared to be on the verge of saying something significant when he suddenly tailed off into disjointed speech, leaving Helen embarrassed and confused. She’d thought he liked her; now she wasn’t at all sure.

Yet Simon Russell looked at her the same way he did everything: intensely with quiet, irresistible force. He made her pulse pound like a drum and warmth invade her body. His rich voice touched her in deep places. Somehow, with very few words, the hardened, taciturn Captain Russell could make her whole being throb with sensation, heat and need.

He was a good man who Helen respected and admired. She couldn’t put him out of her mind even though he wasn’t a romantic figure like Lord Pembroke. She missed him when he wasn’t there, searching for him in crowds, in her mother’s drawing room and in her dreams.

She’d been trying to rid herself of these fierce pangs of infatuation, especially after her mother’s shocking revelation about Captain Russell’s recent illness. Helen found hard it to believe but it had planted a seed of doubt in her mind and that, along with the fear she might have misread things completely, was enough to make her insecure. So she’d sought out Lord Pembroke and his poetry, believing it would be an antidote. After all, every girl craved romance and better still if it was provided by a handsome man.

So far though Lord Pembroke’s company, flattery and poetry weren’t working – all she could think about still was Captain Russell.

She sighed. That wasn’t supposed to happen but there could be no better place than the Midsummer Eve ball to cure her fascination with Captain Russell.

Helen, well aware of the legends and customs that inspired the Allingham’s famous ball, vowed while she was here to immerse herself in Orlo Pembroke and his poems. Maybe then he would stir her passions as much as Captain Russell did.

“Miss Chesney?”

Startled out of her reverie, she coloured and looked up at her companion. “Yes, Lord Pembroke?”