The Marriage Trap (12 page)

What was wrong with the woman? Everyone wanted to help her, but she would have none of it.

His grandmother said gently, “No one likes to be the poor relation, Jack, as you should know as a younger son.”

After a moment, he smiled. “There's not much gets past you.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that. You still haven't told me what happened between you and Ellie.”

He said pleasantly, “Nothing happened, Grandmamma. As I told you, I rescued her from a riot. I have no idea what she was up to at the Palais Royal.”

His grandmother nodded. “I believe you, dear, but I doubt if the world will.”

He sighed. “Just tell me where she lives.”

Ellie adjusted the flame of the lamp to help her read better. Even during the daylight hours she was forced to light a candle. In her basement lodgings, no rays of the sun ever penetrated the small windows.

She didn't regard these lodgings as her home, but as a temporary stop between jobs. It was cheap, it was convenient, and a place to store the few pieces of her mother's furniture that she wished to keep. And whenever she felt the walls close in on her, Hyde Park was only a short walk away. She did a lot of walking in Hyde Park, but not today. After reading the letters that had come by the second post, the spark had gone out of her. So she'd made herself a cup of medicinal tea and had a good cry.

She couldn't stop reading those letters. Even now, she sat down at the table, smoothed them open, and read them again. Each said much the same as the one before it. The position for which she had applied was no longer open, thank you very much, et cetera, et cetera. And this without ever having interviewed her.

Her name said it all, though she'd changed it back to Elinor Brans-Hill. It was uncanny how, in less than a fortnight, word of her disgrace had spread far and wide.

“At least,” she said aloud, “to the wealthy families in London who can afford to pay for a lady's companion.”

She was doing it again, talking to herself. What she longed for was a little dog. She could speak her thoughts aloud then, and not feel that she was losing her mind.

She would have to start over, only this time she would look for a position outside of London, where no one had heard the name of Ellie Brans-Hill. But not too far away. She wanted to be close to Robbie.

Sighing, she spread open that morning's newspaper and ticked off anything that was of interest.

There was an advertisement for a housekeeper for a doctor with a growing family in Hampstead.

Hampstead.
That jogged her memory. Her cousin had offered her a cottage in Hampstead after that dreadful debacle in Paris. Had Dorothea been a different kind of woman, she might have been tempted to accept. But Dorothea was not going to be given another chance to make her life miserable. Poor Cardvale.

She read the advertisement again.

A growing family.
That meant she would be part housekeeper, part nursemaid. It was not up to the standing of her former positions, but it would be better than this dismal place.

Or she could become Aurora again. One night as Aurora would solve all her problems.

Or it could turn into a fiasco like the last time.

Before she was carried away on that train of thought, she put a mark with her pencil beside the advertisement for Housekeeper in Hampstead. It had much to recommend it—fresh country air and it was close to London.

The kettle on the hob started to whistle. She got up and made a fresh pot of tea. When the tea was infused, she poured out a cup and added a teaspoon of a home-brewed cordial—her mother's recipe—to calm the nerves. This potent brew was intended for her landlady, who had trouble sleeping at night. A healthy young woman should have no need of such aids.

The thought only added to her depression.

She sat in front of the smoldering fire, warming her toes, sipping the hot tea. The hearth was the warmest spot in the house. Her bedroom-alcove, concealed by a curtain, was as cold as a tomb.

She sighed and sighed again. She'd been down before, but never this low. Aurora's money was gone, all used up on Robbie's debts. And Robbie wasn't the boy he'd been before that trip to Paris. He'd told her that he'd been attacked in a brawl. What he had not had the courage to tell her until they were England was that he'd been
suspended
from Oxford for failing that Greek examination. That's why he'd embarked on a jaunt to Paris. Silly young fool! Now he had to work like the devil to pass that examination or he'd be sent down, expelled, and that would be the end of his university education. Meantime, he was convalescing with Uncle Freddie in Chelsea. She'd visited him once, but the visit was anything but satisfactory.

She sipped her tea slowly, reliving in her mind the conversation she'd had with Robbie on the journey home to England. Milton had vouched for everything her brother told her. But they were both ill at ease and evasive. They'd told her the truth up to a point, but it wasn't the whole truth.

What in heaven's name was going on?

Maybe she was imagining things. Living like a mole in this underground tunnel didn't help. This was her permanent residence and, when she'd first found it shortly after leaving Cardvale's protection, she'd been delighted. It was cheap; it would do to store all her mother's furniture. But best of all, these rooms had a door that led directly outside to a flight of stone steps that came out on Henrietta Street. It was quiet and private, and her comings and goings need concern no one but herself.

Now her lodgings seemed too close to the street for comfort. No doubt it was her imagination acting up again, but she was beginning to hear footsteps late at night, coming and going on those stone steps. She was so unnerved that she'd taken to leaving a candle burning in front of the grate after she had gone to bed, hoping that the light would scare off intruders.

Her hand jerked. She heard them now, footsteps descending her stairs.

There was a rap on the door. “Ellie?” Her landlady's voice. “There's a gentleman to see you. Your solicitor.”

She put down her cup and sucked air into her lungs. At this rate, she'd end up in Bedlam. Rising, she hurried to unlock the door. The darkly handsome gentleman who filled the doorway was not her solicitor.

“Jack!” She was astonished. “What brings you here?”

He bowed, prompting her to mind her manners. She curtsied.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, “but I have a letter here that urgently requires your attention.” To the landlady, he said, “I usually conduct business at a more civilized hour in my chambers but, as I said, the matter is urgent.”

This little speech amused Ellie. Mrs. Mann would not care how late a gentleman called or whether the proprieties were adhered to. She mothered all her lodgers, and her one ambition for Ellie was to see her settled with some nice young gentleman. She would be only too happy to relax the rules of propriety.

Jack was looking over her shoulder, taking inventory of her dingy, cramped quarters. She wasn't ashamed, but her cheeks burned all the same. She had the strangest urge to shut the door in his face, but Mrs. Mann would be shocked. Even now, she was making faces at her, telling her to smile, be nice to the gentleman.

The decision was taken out of her hands. Jack dismissed Mrs. Mann with a charming bow, advanced into the room, forcing Ellie back a step, then he closed the door. His stillness unsettled her, and she wondered what he was thinking.

He was trying not to let his feelings show. He'd heard of genteel poverty, but this was pitiful. It was also unnecessary. For one thing, she had good friends who would have been happy to help her out. Sir Charles was one. Cardvale was another. All that aside, he knew that she'd had a large sum of money at her disposal before she left Paris.

He caught the unguarded look in her eyes and saw something he had never expected to see. She looked beaten.

As though reading his mind, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I'm just getting over a cold,” she said, then she dug in her pocket, found her handkerchief, and blew her nose.

He spoke gently. “You should have told me in Paris who you were. I would have helped you, Ellie, both you and Robbie. I don't know why I didn't recognize you.”

She had to blow her nose again. “Thank you, but we don't need your help. We can manage.”

His gentler feelings evaporated. “Oh yes, I can see how well you manage. What happened to the money you had in Paris? Obviously you did not spend it on yourself, so what did you . . . ah, it would have to be Robbie.”

Her face tightened. “You are not my solicitor. I owe you no explanations. So why are you here?”

“Shall we sit down?”

“Not until I know why you are here.”

Her tone did not improve his temper. As curt as she, he replied, “I am here at the request of Sir Charles Stuart. He has asked me to intercede on your brother's behalf.” He removed a letter from his pocket. “This letter from Sir Charles will explain everything.”

He held the letter aloft, just out of her reach. “Now can we sit down?”

She huffed when he took her by the elbow and led her to a chair. Only when they were both seated did he hand over the letter. She broke the seal and began to read. Before she got to the end, all the color had washed out of her face.

“Well?” he said finally.

She was staring blankly at the letter. Her voice was faint. “I knew Robbie was in some kind of trouble, but I never imagined anything like this.” She looked up at him. Color surged back into her cheeks and she said fiercely, “It's not true! It can't be! Robbie doesn't have it in him to hurt anyone. He's a good boy.” Her voice cracked, but that did not stop her. “Sir Charles says that the evidence against him is circumstantial. Well, I say they should look elsewhere for their murderer!”

“I'm sorry. I should have realized your brother wouldn't confide in you.”

“There's nothing to confide! He's innocent.”

“I believe you. So does Sir Charles. We are not your enemies. We want to help you.”

She raised the letter and read it again. “The actress,” she said. “I remember now. They were looking for her lover.” She lifted her eyes to his. “That couldn't be Robbie.”

“Are you sure?”

No. She wasn't sure of anything except that her brother wasn't a murderer. She said, “Sir Charles says that you'll explain what must be done. What does he mean by that?”

He shifted slightly, edging forward in his chair. “I must see Robbie and take a statement from him, a deposition that will be notarized by my attorney. In the meantime, Sir Charles is making his own inquiries into the death of Louise Daudet. Robbie isn't on trial. There are other suspects in the case, and, all going well, the deposition I send Sir Charles will clear your brother's name.”

She said quietly, “You won't send him back to France?”

“Absolutely not. I give you my word on that.”

When she sniffed again, he reached over and took her hands in his. “There's no need for such anguish,” he said. “Robbie will be under my protection, do you understand?”

She nodded, but kept blinking.

He looked at her hands and frowned. “You're as cold as ice.”

She tried to tug her hands away. “It's my own fault. I let the fire burn too low. If you give me a moment, I'll fill the coal scuttle.”

“Where is the coal kept?”

“In the coal cellar, of course.” She sounded cross. “It's no hardship.”

He knew that the coal cellar would be in one of the outhouses and was about to offer his services when he had a better idea. He wanted to take her away from this depressing little house to a place where there was light and warmth, a place where they could have a bite to eat and a glass of wine to wash it down.

He got up. “There's an inn just off the Oxford Road, the Windsor Arms. It's warm and comfortable and only a short walk away. We can talk there.”

When it looked as though she might argue, he added, “I'm hungry, Ellie. Starved, in fact. And I don't suppose you have any strong spirits in the house. Beer would do.”

“Certainly not!”

“Not even a medicinal brandy?”

“I can offer you a medicinal cup of tea.”

He grinned. “Thank you, but tea brings me out in a rash.”

A grudging smile curved her lips. “Oh, very well.” She got up. “But you do realize that if people see us together, there will be more talk.”

“They won't see us. It's dark outside, and the Windsor Arms is in a quiet cul-de-sac. Now get your coat.”

She gave him a speaking look, picked up a candle that she lit from the lamp, and took the few steps to the curtained alcove that served as the bedchamber. He noted that Sir Charles's letter was still in her hand and surmised that she would want to read it again without him looking over her shoulder.

His grin faded the moment she disappeared behind the curtain. He found the gloom in this little dungeon that Ellie called “home” too chilling to shake off. He had promised Sir Charles that he would do what he could for both Ellie and her brother, and he was more resolved than ever to keep his promise. And the first thing he would do was move Ellie into more congenial surroundings. In his mind's eye, he saw a room with light streaming through long windows. There would be a French door leading into the garden, and an apple tree . . .