Sapphire. Rosemary Rogers

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      “Does Aunt Lucia know you’re going?”

      Sapphire frowned as she opened the drawer of a chifforobe to retrieve a pair of scented travel gloves.

      “Are you going to tell her where you’ve been when you return?”

      Sapphire didn’t answer.

      “Then you’re sneaking.”

      “He’s my father, Angel. I will not have our first encounter in front of hundreds of people at some formal ball or another.”

      “Let me go with you, then.”

      “You’re not going with me.” Sapphire traversed the bedchamber to the door, tucking a stray pincurl beneath her bonnet. “You’re going to stay here and cover for me in case my father and I fall into a lengthy conversation and lose track of the time.” She glanced back at Angel. “Although I think that is highly unlikely, considering what I have to say to him.”

      “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. Aunt Lucia is going to be furious.” Angelique followed her into the hallway. “Are you nervous?”

      Sapphire shook her head, biting down on the soft flesh of her inner lip. It was a lie, of course, even Angel knew it, but saying she wasn’t nervous somehow made her feel stronger, bolder. “Cover for me if you must, but don’t get yourself in trouble. I wouldn’t ask that you lie for me.” Sapphire gave her friend a quick peck on the cheek and, seeing the third-story hall was empty, hurried for the staircase, raising a gloved hand in farewell. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

      London was noisy, smelly, dirty and deafening. There were so many sights to see—churches, elegant town houses, narrow shops, public buildings—that she couldn’t decide where to look next. Throngs crowded the streets: butchers’ boys carrying huge sections of beef, mutton and pork; ladies’ maids hurrying by on errands; beggars; plump merchants’ wives; clergymen; farmers in wooden clogs and straw hats; bewigged judges and uniformed soldiers, all threading their way past riders on horseback, hackneys, carriages, ale wagons and wicker carts, not to mention the stray dogs, pigs and occasional chicken. The carriage ride from Charing Cross to the fashionable West End of London was not nearly as long as Sapphire would have liked, and before she knew it her coachman reined in his horse in front of the marble steps of an elegant town house—one she had discreetly discovered was her father’s home when he was in the city.

      “Would you like me to wait, miss?” the driver called from the high seat of his hackney.

      Sapphire put on a false smile, lifted her chin a notch and tried to imagine how an earl’s daughter would behave around common working men. “No, thank you, sir. Good day.” She passed him what she hoped was the correct fee for his service.

      He grinned, tugged at his forelock and nodded. “Thank’ee, miss.” Then he cracked his whip over the horse’s back and the hired carriage rolled away, leaving her no choice but to lift the ornate lion’s-head knocker on the paneled walnut door that was wide enough for two broad-shouldered men to pass through side by side.

      The door was opened almost at once, startling her.

      “May I help you?” a slender, middle-aged footman in a spotless black coat inquired, looking down at her through the lenses of his eyeglasses.

      “Yes, thank you, sir.” Sapphire felt as if she couldn’t breathe as she stepped into the front hall without waiting to be asked. “I’m here to see Lord Wessex.” She was amazed how true and clear her voice sounded; it was without a hint of waver.

      “And may I ask who is calling?”

      Sapphire could tell by his tone of voice that he did not approve of her arrival without a proper invitation. In the day they had been in London, she had learned that English society life was quite different from the laissez-faire existence in Martinique among the wealthy French and English landowners. Here, there were rules concerning proper etiquette for visiting involving calling cards, morning invitations and evening invitations and even the length of sleeve appropriate. It was her lack of a proper calling card, presently at the printers, that probably made the footman suspicious of her.

      “His daughter.” She smiled sweetly.

      The footman could not hide his surprise. “Miss?”

      “You ask who calls on Lord Wessex. I am his daughter.” She plucked off a glove, amazed at how easily she could fall into the role of Lady Sapphire Thixton. “Please tell him that I’m here. I haven’t but a moment.”

      The butler gave a half bow, still looking as if he did not believe her. “Would you care to sit down while I see if his lordship is available?” He indicated a row of white and gold brocade chairs along one wall of the large, ornate receiving hall.

      “No, thank you.” She hoped he would interpret her smile to mean he should hurry along.

      “One moment, miss.”

      He bowed again and disappeared through an arched doorway. The town house did not appear especially large from the outside, but she could now see that it was immense. Her father was not only titled, but obviously quite a wealthy man.

      Sapphire exhaled slowly, pressing her hand to the knot in her abdomen, staring at the huge formal portraits of balding men that lined the walls.

      Only a moment more, she told herself, and we’ll meet face-to-face.

      Blake heard the first knock at the door to the study but ignored it. The knock came again and he peered up irritably from behind the desk that had belonged to the late Lord Wessex. “Yes, what is it that is so urgent?” he barked. “Did I not say less than half an hour ago that I did not wish to be disturbed unless the house was aflame? I don’t care what color livery the footmen wear today and I don’t care if we have the eel pie or the tripe soup because I will not be dining in this house tonight! Not if it were the last table of food on God’s earth,” he finished.

      The paneled study door opened and the butler, Preston, stood at attention, his eyes downcast, until Blake completed his string of insults. “My lord.”

      “Yes?” Blake groaned.

      “There is someone to see you here, my lord.”

      “Who?” He half rose from the chair, pressing the heels of his hands into the polished wood of the desk.

      “A young lady, my lord, who says…”

      “She says what, Preston? Come, now, I grow old before your eyes.”

      “She says she is your daughter, my lord.”

      “My daughter?” Blake exploded. “I haven’t got a damn daughter. What in God’s name—” He broke off before completing the sentence when he realized what was going on.

      Word apparently spread fast in London when it came to inheritances, and people had been pouring out of the woodwork all week, claiming the previous earl owed them money. Perhaps a few were owed, considering the state of Edward Thixton IV’s accounts, but mostly these scavengers were on his doorstep hoping to take advantage of a grieving widow or an aged, addlepated heir. “Would you like me to turn her away, sir?”

      Blake thought for a moment СКАЧАТЬ