скачать книгу бесплатно
If she looked hard she could see the outline of the three-story brick building across the way.
As late as it was, even the servants were abed. No one would be the wiser if she slipped outside.
Within fifteen minutes she was sitting on an ornate iron bench three stories below her balcony.
Fresh, cool air washed over her face, a welcome change from the stifling yellow fog that had clung to everything earlier in the day.
Truly, there had been moments when it hurt to breathe. She’d felt great pity for those forced to go about their daily business muddling through it.
Thankfully, at about sundown a fresh wind had blown it away, allowing the moon to shine down, to cleanse and bless everything with its pure, cold light.
The thought was quite poetic and it made her smile. She hoped she would remember it when she went back upstairs and took her pen and paper out of the secretary.
She might not, though, since she was in no hurry to leave this tranquil spot. It would be nice to sit here until the first rays of morning light peeked over the rooftops, but she was fairly certain it would be forbidden.
Given that Grandfather had cautioned her to observe every social rule, appear beyond reproach in everything she said or did, she doubted she ought to be down here by herself for even a moment.
Still, who was to know that she sat here blissfully listening to the rustle of tall shrubbery in the breeze, and the tinkle of the fountain?
Not a single soul. She was free to sit here and wonder what she was doing in London in the first place, why she had even considered Grandfather’s outrageous request—not demand. She was free to sit here and wonder what she was doing in London in the first place, why she had even considered Grandfather’s outrageous request—not demand.
And yet here she sat, somewhat contentedly listening to the sound of pattering droplets hitting the surface of the large pond when she ought to be seething in indignation.
But it was soothing, and while not as dramatic as the crashing waves of the ocean, it was lovely in its own way. Perhaps if she viewed events as an adventure, at least until she made up her mind about them, she could find a bit of peace within herself.
To that end she must make a point of sneaking out every night.
Solitude was something that even Grandfather’s fortune could not purchase. Closing her eyes, Clementine listened to a symphony of frogs accompanied by the twitter of a nightingale. London might be a pleasant place after all. In time she might—
“Curse it!”
A man’s exclamation cut the peace of the moment. He sounded startled more than angry. The sudden rustling of brush gave way to a husky gasp.
She leaped off the bench, ready to flee. Who would be creeping about in the hedge at this hour unless he was an intruder up to no good? Perhaps a thief or a pillager?
A cat dashed across the walkway at the same moment the dark-clad figure tumbled into the fountain. She could not be certain, but she thought he hit his head on a stone going in.
Oh, dear!
The pond was only knee-deep, but the man was floating facedown in it.
It was possible that he was a villain, or equally possible that he had a very good reason to be out here, the same as she did. In any case, she could hardly let him drown.
Running, she came to the edge of the water, stepped into it, slippers and gown forgotten—but not forgotten enough not to feel horrible for the servant who would have to make them presentable again.
Reaching for the man’s shoulders, she had to kick aside the long black coat he wore because it floated about him, getting tangled in her skirt and restricting her movement.
Giving a solid yank, she managed to get him on his back. Mercy, but he was heavy and, oh, my—
If he was a villain, he was a dashing one, with dark hair and a sweep of black, seductive eyelashes. Until this moment Clementine hadn’t known a man’s lashes could be seductive.
No doubt his villainy consisted of sneaking home from a tryst.
She patted his cheek. “Wake up, sir!”
All at once he lunged, caught her about the hips and dragged her down.
She beat on his forearms. “Why! You great lurching oaf! Let me go before I scream!” Which she could not do without everyone knowing she had come outside in the dark. It would not be well received to be found in the fountain in the slippery embrace of a man.
The most amazing eyes she had ever seen focused on her face. Slowly, as if shuffling through dense fog, the fellow came back from wherever the blow had taken him.
“Wh-what?” he stuttered, wiping his face and then reaching for his hat, which bobbed about on the surface of the water.
“As best I can tell, you were startled by a cat.” She snagged the soggy headwear and handed it to him. “You hit your head after you fell through the bush and into the pond. There is a bit of swelling above your right eye, but so far it doesn’t appear too horrid.”
What was horrid, and funny at the same time, was that she was sitting side by side with a stranger in a fountain, the pair of them blinking away water dripping down their foreheads.
“And who do I have to thank for my rescue?” he asked, swiping the hair back from his face.
Certainly not Clementine Jane Macooish! The scandal would be enormous were anyone to find out about this.
“Jane—Fitz.”
* * *
“Thank you, Lady Fitz.” Heath did not recall anyone by the last name of Fitz among the titled but he had no wish to offend his beautiful rescuer by assuming she was not. Clearly she was an American but she might still be titled if she was married to a peer.
It was difficult to determine the color of her eyes in the darkness. The shade of her curly, tumbled hair was disguised as well, given that it was dripping wet and dappled with moonlight. Fortunately the midnight dousing appeared not to have dampened the lively spirit shining from the lady’s eyes—no, not that so much as lively and serious all in one suspicious glance while she studied him.
“Miss Fitz will do nicely, I think.”
The right thing to do would be to rise from the water and offer her a hand up, but she was gazing at him with her head tipped ever so slightly to one side. He found her fascinating, so all he wanted was to sit here and look at her.
“I believe—” her brows lifted in a slender, delicate arch “—it would be polite to introduce yourself so that I do not decide you are a criminal bent on mayhem.”
“I assure you that I am not.”
That admission did not mean he would reveal himself as Fencroft. How would he explain his reason for dashing through the garden at this hour like a fleeing criminal? Better she thought he was bent on mayhem.
If his business of the evening came to light, lives would be threatened, the Fencroft estate ruined.
“My name is Heath Ramsfield.” The first surname to pop into his mind was his butler’s, so he used it. “You are shivering, Miss Fitz. We should get out of the water.”
He stood, reached for her hand and saw that it was bare, but he clamped his fingers around it anyway. The last thing he wanted was for her to slip and be injured, which would force him to seek help. Anyone he called upon would recognize him.
“I can only wonder, Mr. Ramsfield, are you always so skittish of cats?”
“It did appear rather suddenly.”
He stood a respectable distance from her, although barely, being captivated as he was by moonlight reflecting in the beads of water dotting her face. She had a beautiful nose, not pert as so many desired, but straight and elegant. It might have given her a stern demeanor were it not for the good humor warming her eyes.
“Oh, yes.” She squeezed her fingers around the hank of hair dripping over her shoulder and wrung out the water. “They do tend to do that.”
Water dribbling from their clothing onto the stones chimed with the droplets sprinkling in the fountain. A breeze scuttled through the shrubbery, making him shiver. It would be wise and proper to part company now, but he found he did not want to.
Who was this woman and why was she here in his garden? It was not as though he could come right out and ask, not without admitting he had a right to know.
“I suppose I have ruined your evening, and your gown.”
“Oh, I think not. I’ve never rescued anyone from a fountain in the middle of the night before. It was a riveting distraction.”
He laughed quietly. When was the last time he had done that? “And I thank you. But what did you need distracting from? Perhaps I can help?”
She was silent for a moment, holding him with her gaze, judging to determine if he was worthy of her confidence, he imagined.
The woman seemed as wise as she was attractive. Probably as different from the one he was contracted to marry in every way there could be. It was harsh of him to judge his future bride before he ever met her, but if she appealed to Oliver, he doubted Madeline Macooish would suit him.
“That is unlikely unless you know how a common-born woman would address, well, let’s say an earl or a viscount, in case she passes him in a hallway or on the street.”
Or in a water fountain with the night so close and intimate about them.
“I suspect he might just appreciate ‘Good day.’”
If only he were free to pursue a woman of his choosing! It couldn’t be this woman, a commoner and a poor American—society would never recover from it—but one like her. If there was one like her to be had.
“That sounds delightfully simple. But now that you know why I was in the garden, I’d like to know what you are doing here.”
She spoke to him with boldness and he found it quite appealing. Would she do so if she knew him to be the lordly master of the house next door? He was glad she didn’t know it, since the very thought was as pompous as a strutting rooster.
“There are some things a gentleman cannot reveal. Let’s just say I thought it an inviting path to take on my way home.”
“Yes, until you encountered a cat. I can’t be sure but it appeared to have been a black cat. I hope you do not also encounter a string of bad luck.”
“To tell you the truth, Miss Fitz, tripping over the cat and coming awake in the pond with you was the nicest thing to happen to me all evening.”
The nicest thing to happen to him in a very long time, in fact.
“Being plucked from certain death is nice of an evening.”
“Quite,” he murmured. Then, since he could hardly keep her here shivering all night, he said, “Please, let me pay for your ruined gown.”
“It’s far from ruined, only wet. It will dry out right as rain.”
“I’ll see you home then.” He crooked his arm thinking how silly it must look, two dripping people in the wee hours of the night observing the formal gesture.
“There is no need.” She arched a brow, shaking her head. “I’ll be fine on my own.”
“I assure you, I’m not a blackguard, but they are out there.” He waggled his elbow at her. “You saved my life. I will escort you home.”
“As I said, there is no need.” She glanced over her shoulder at the apartments on the far side of the garden. “I am completely capable of walking from here to there.”
But she didn’t walk. She lifted the hem of her drenched skirt, spun about and ran. Her slippers made squishy noises across the stones.
She opened a door mostly used by servants, nodded to him and then vanished inside.
And like a dream in the night, she was gone. Who was this woman? A servant? Not likely, given she was an American. A lady’s companion hired by someone renting one of the apartments across the shared garden? More likely that, or something of the such.
While he stared at the door, a fairy-tale character came to mind. The mysterious Cinderella. Although Cinderella was not seductively dripping but merely missing a shoe.
Leaves rustled. The cat leaped from a bush. It crossed in front of him, tail waving smartly in the air.
Was it good luck or bad luck that he had met the beautiful and self-minded American?
Heath supposed he would never know for certain. In his sphere, the titled and the common people lived side by side but in vastly different worlds.
* * *
Since breakfast was a private affair, Clementine ignored proper etiquette and propped her elbows on the table. She folded her fingers under her chin and stared across at Grandfather.
He seemed distracted, glum. It bothered her to see him so downcast. It was uncommon for him to be anything but cheerfully confident.
She lifted a biscuit from a dainty plate and spread clotted cream on it while she thought how she might best cheer him up.
But given that she was one of the reasons for his frown, it might be difficult.
Surely he must understand that he could not simply decree that she would take Madeline’s place and marry a stranger in a foreign land and expect her to smile blissfully and fall into line with his wishes.
She had wishes of her own—dreams that his ambition had ripped from her—of teaching children, to put a fine point on it. Every day she wondered how her students in Los Angeles were faring with the new instructor. She hoped he would be patient with Billy’s slow speech and Anna’s progressive mind.
Would it even be possible to teach again once she bowed to Grandfather’s demand? She honestly had no idea what a countess was and was not allowed to do. She did know it was a rather lofty position in society, so maybe she could do as she pleased and no one would speak against it. Then again, perhaps everyone would speak against it.
She wished she could ease her grandfather’s mind by agreeing to the marriage before her next bite of biscuit and cream, but she was not quite ready to make that commitment even though she had crossed the Atlantic Ocean to that supposed end.
Indeed, she was less ready this morning than she had been last night.
For some reason the man she’d pulled from the fountain was capturing a good deal of her attention. No matter how she tried, she could not put away the image of water dripping off the corners of his mouth, of the handsome turn of his lips when he smiled or of the easy conversation that sprang so naturally between them.
It was not an easy thing to make a decision to marry a man when another fellow’s face was all one could see. What a shame Mr. Ramsfield was not the earl. Her outlook on the marriage might be slightly different if that were the case.
At the heart of it, Grandfather’s heavy spirit was not her fault. It was Madeline’s. Had her cousin lived up to what she had been groomed for rather than running off, Grandfather would be celebrating an engagement rather than fearing there might not be one. Also, he would not now be fearful that Madeline would come to a desperate end.
Yes, it was all completely Madeline’s fault. Clementine was only here in London facing a decision that might break Grandfather’s heart because of her cousin’s reckless decision.
“Life for a bastard child is—” Grandfather’s voice faltered. “I only hope that Madeline will remember and behave—”
He would know this since he had been one.
The circumstance of his birth was not something he spoke much of—not in words—but the struggles of his young life had formed the man he was.
