Sophia James - Fallen Angel

Daphne’s voice brought him back into the present. ‘My daughter tells me that you are lost.’

‘I am, and if you could but give me some instruction as to the path I must follow to reach the Mill, I would be most grateful.’

Daphne stood. ‘We usually eat here within the next half an hour. I know this is an invitation pushed upon you without much warning and indeed by strangers as we are, but we would deem it an honour if you were to join us.’

Put so humbly, how could Nicholas refuse, and his smile touched his eyes for the first time as he surveyed the two women before him. With a little persuasiveness in the right direction there was much here that he could learn and he could also begin back for London that very same night.

‘I would be delighted, Lady De Lancey, though it truly cannot be for very long as I have business matters most pressing to attend to.’

‘Hurry then, Charlotte, and fetch Mr Pencarrow a beverage,’ Daphne barked the order and the girl jumped up towards the drinks’ table, turning back to him only as she reached it and enquiring of Nicholas what it was he wished to have. His glance raked across the ill-laid trolley chancing on a port he enjoyed, and he gave her his preference.

‘Are there just the two of you here?’ His eyes flicked to the family portrait behind Daphne.

‘At the moment…yes,’ Charlotte answered with an open honestness. ‘All of my sisters are married. George, our brother, died soon after that drawing was completed.’ She stopped, watching Daphne before adding, ‘Our father too.’ Sadness showed plainly across both faces.

‘You were lucky, then, that the land was not entailed,’ Nick said quietly. ‘Some families could lose everything were the male heir to die.’ It was said more in innocence than design, though as he looked up an expression of such guilt was written across Daphne’s face it was as if she had screamed, We lost it way before that, and taking her drink she finished it in one long and unbroken swallow.

Charlotte glanced around uneasily at her mother, and Nicholas, seeing her uncertainty, raised his glass in a toast.

‘Here’s to life,’ he said slowly.

One begun, one ended. Two babies, born on exactly the same day to two very different women, and a family lost to Brenna.

A coldness began to settle inside of Nicholas, an answer to a puzzle he didn’t want to find, a premonition of Brenna’s fear, of her secrecy, an understanding of Michael’s protection and an explanation for Daphne’s madness. He squashed it down, not willing to dissect it at all further, and questioned Charlotte instead. ‘Do you ever come down to London?’

‘Oh, hardly ever,’ she laughed. ‘We have a relation there, my father’s brother.’ She glanced around uneasily. ‘He has a house in Camberwell, I believe. A Sir Michael De Lancey—mayhap you know of him?’

Nicholas made light of his answer, unwilling to take the subject any further for he didn’t wish to alarm Daphne or inadvertently frighten Michael or Brenna into flight.

‘It’s a big place,’ he replied flatly, his eyes flitting unbidden back to the visage of an unlawful male heir and a family portrait which should have proudly held the likeness of a woman who was becoming increasingly important to him.

The drive back to London was a long one for Nicholas, all his energies spent trying to unravel the puzzle of Brenna De Lancey Stanhope, and, on arriving in town he directed his driver to deliver him to his club instead of Pencarrow House.

Almost the only other occupant of the place as Nicholas walked through the salons was the Earl of Drummorne, Francis Woodhams, sitting ensconced in an armchair by the fire, brandy in hand and lost in thought.

‘Penny for them?’ Nick chided as he sat to join him, beckoning a passing waiter for a whisky.

Brown eyes rose in greeting, a tepid smile barely lighting them in humour. ‘Sit at your peril, Nick, for I warn you today I am not good company.’

‘Did your brother abscond with more of the family jewels?’ Nicholas quipped without apology, thinking of Bertrand, a known gambler whose excesses seemed paid for only by Francis’s good intelligence in business.

‘Nay, it’s Louisa. She’s leaving me!’

‘But you only just returned from Paris and, from all accounts that I’ve heard, the trip seemed more than a success.’

For the first time Francis smiled. ‘I thought so too! It seems, however, the life of a well-bred courtesan is not enough for her. She wants her independence.’

Nicholas grimaced. ‘Tough to promise,’ he said with feeling.

‘My thoughts exactly. Seems she has a woman friend in business on the east side of town, someone from her far and distant past. The woman is the epitome of “unconventional femininity”, according to Louisa. Together they could rule the world.’ He up-ended his glass. ‘Louisa working in an orphanage. Can you even imagine it?’

‘Hell!’ Nicholas lurched to his feet. ‘Not the Beaumont Street Orphanage run by Brenna Stanhope?’

Astonishment raced across Francis’s brow. ‘Yes. I’m sure that is the name she mentioned…’

‘Interesting, indeed.’ Nick stood, running his hands through his hair before facing Francis urgently. ‘Where’s Louisa now?’

‘She’s at the town house. You want me to go with you right this minute?’ Francis groaned and stood. ‘This had better damn well be important, Nick.’

‘Believe me, it’s very important,’ came the cryptic reply, and Francis hurried to catch him up.

The walk through Hyde Park to Mayfair was a long one and Brenna paused to look around her, the semi-dusk of the early afternoon burying the city under a carpet of smoke.

London. It was glorious and dismal, rich and poor, elegant and tatty. Here, in an area favoured by the fashionable and wealthy, the houses changed their coats; larger, spacious, gardened and well to do, and Brenna, walking now into Mount Street, smiled as she caught sight of Louisa waiting patiently at the corner, parasol opened above her to guard against the dampness in the air.

‘Brenna!’ The girl came forward. ‘It seems an age since I’ve seen you.’

‘It has been,’ Brenna returned, kissing the offered cheek lightly, her eyes widening with astonishment at the beauty before her. ‘And how a year in Paris has changed you, Louisa! You look wonderful.’ Her glance fell across the colourful silk bodice of a day gown cut daringly low.

Louisa smiled, tucking errant blond curls beneath a lace-edged cap. ‘Francis bought me a whole wardrobe in Paris. He bought me this too.’ She pulled forth a necklace, laced in gold and emeralds, and Brenna, holding them, felt the warmth of Louisa’s body on the metal.

‘And you’re happy?’

‘I am trying to be, though sometimes…’ Her blue eyes darkened as she struggled to continue. ‘Sometimes I would like to be more in control of my own destiny, Brenna, and determine my future just as you have yours. But enough of that. The reason I have asked you here today is to give you a gift!’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, and from Paris no less! You’re to come right now and try it on. Francis has just left and won’t be back till tomorrow at least and I have the apartment entirely to myself.’

Brenna stepped back, unsure about continuing. They met usually in some anonymous safe place far from the real world of either, and seldom discussed the past that bound them both together. Now, well dressed and pampered, Louisa wanted no recollection of her early years, and Brenna had little want to delve there either. It was as if in this mutual pact of silence something was salvaged, some sense of dignity and honour, some shape of a past that mitigated their guilt and let them stand free and independent.