The Bride Wore Scandal. Helen Dickson

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СКАЧАТЬ least suspicion about what goes on here at Oakbridge. I doubt Mark will forgo the opportunity of obtaining thousands of pounds’ worth of goods, but we must make him aware of the danger. When the guests have arrived, you must slip away and warn him. You’ll find him in the usual place, organising the night’s work. After that it’s up to him.’

      Christina paled. ‘But—you know how much I hate that tunnel, William. I cannot …’

      ‘Yes, you can,’ William said roughly. ‘You must. If you leave during the firework display, your absence will be least noticed.’

      Christina hesitated for a moment, then, determination in the set of her small jaw, the expression in her eyes almost truculent, she said, ‘Very well, but you know how I feel about facing Mark and his band of ruffians.’

      ‘You’d best have a room made ready for our unwelcome guest—and his valet, I suppose—the blue room in the West Wing, which is far enough away from the entrance Mark will use, should he have need to come back here later. With any luck, Rockley will leave after breakfast without suspecting a thing. If he is suspicious, we must make sure he knows nothing definite. Hopefully he will go away and we’ll see neither hide nor hair of him again.’

      When William had left her, Christina thought of the evening that stretched before her, shrouded with gloom and foreboding. She tried to prepare herself for her meeting with Lord Rockley, her stomach twisting into sick knots of fear. William had told her he was clever. How clever? she wondered. Under close inspection she studied her image in her dressing-table mirror, considering her features only for what hazard they might pose. Was there something in her eyes and her expression that might prove to be a liability, something that would betray them all?

      The face that stared back at her was an attractive face, the features soft, the eyes appealing. She quickly pulled herself up sharp. This was a time for survival, not for girlish fancies and longings. With a hardness of purpose born of necessity, Christina gave her mind over to how best she might carry out her deception, entertaining no concept of a day when these self-same features might cause a man to forget what other goals he had in mind.

      One after another, the carriages came slowly up the short avenue of poplars leading to the entrance to Oakbridge, lit up from the basement to the roof for the occasion by lights flaring cheerfully in the darkness. Built in Tudor times of warm red brick, it was large and rambling. Sadly, its tasteful furnishings and exquisite decorations were showing signs of neglect. Fabrics had become faded and frayed, carpets worn, and there were pale rectangles on the walls where paintings used to hang; although it was months since they had been taken down and sold, their absence never failed to remind Christina of William’s debt to Mark Bucklow, or the vicious threat he posed to their lives.

      Only the most eminent of the local gentry had been invited to tonight’s party, so that the guests felt themselves highly privileged persons. It was clear, early as it was, that the event would be a success. In the days of Christina’s grandfather, whose wealth had surpassed most of his contemporaries and the estate had exuded good, well-funded stewardship, from its carefully landscaped grounds to the house itself, grand, memorable events had been held at Oakbridge, balls and parties that were still talked about today. Her father had carried on the tradition and it had been expected that William, now Lord Atherton, would do the same. The tradition was about to be continued, but sadly, it was not William who called the tune or funded the entertainment, but Mark Bucklow.

      Christina was breathtakingly beautiful, standing beside William to receive their guests in the doorway of the large drawing-room on the first floor, from which one of several doors led into the long gallery where the dancing was to be held. The ice blue of her dress blended perfectly with her eyes of a slightly darker shade, as did the setting of the diamonds and sapphires that adorned her throat. They had belonged to Christina’s mother, and Christina had steadfastly refused to part with them to pay off William’s debts. The diamonds flashed in the bright light, rousing an answering flash of envy in the eyes of every woman present, and of their male escorts, although their desires were attracted more to the wearer than the jewels.

      Christina could see and feel the admiration directed at her, but how they would sneer, she thought bitterly, if they knew how miserable she was, how heavy her heart, which lay in her breast like a stone. She could not understand how she managed to function at these events. She hated them, but she managed to collect her thoughts sufficiently to respond with grace to the comments of their guests. Her smile was charming, but like the sun, it was more brilliant than warm.

      A man, a stranger to those present, entered and detached himself from the receiving line. His figure was distinctive, his shoulders broad and his walk combined gracefulness with strength. He coolly and carefully examined the faces that made up the assembly, of ladies in ball gowns and men in elaborate wigs and evening dress moving about to the strains of violins.

      Then he turned his eyes on his host. The same procedure was repeated. William Atherton was a slender, fair-haired young man with an open, boyish face. His gaze moved on to the lady by his side. From his enquiries he knew Atherton to be unwed, so he surmised the lady to be his sister Christina. Much had been talked about her beauty, but, not given to listening to idle gossip, he had thought little of it. Now, as he inspected her with the interested look of an entomologist discovering some rare insect, he was all attention.

      Tall and lithe and looking like some fantastic Grecian statue, Christina Atherton was exquisitely lovely, ruling her domain like a young queen. She wore her golden tresses piled and curled in glorious chaos atop her head, with tendrils wafting against the curve of her neck. But he could be forgiven for thinking that he preferred her as he had last seen her the day before, with her hair in a delightful disarray of golden lights, her feet bare and splashing in the brook.

      There was a fragile, waif-like quality about her that appealed to him, a naïve freshness in her eyes that stemmed from innocence. It was a trait absent in the women of his acquaintance, but beneath it all, Christina Atherton reminded him of a fine silver rapier blade, made of steel. He could not keep his eyes off her as she spoke to the guests, her gloved hand resting lightly on her brother’s arm. Her gems caught his eye. They were beautiful and fine cut and matched the deep, uncommon colouring of her eyes, eyes lit by no inner warmth.

      Any woman would have worn such exquisite gems with pride, but Christina Atherton wore them with an indifference that was almost melancholy. People spoke to her, but it was as if she neither saw nor heard. Her smile was pinned to her face like a mask. He would not have dared give open expression to the feelings she aroused and this was because of something at once remote and detached in the attitude and icy façade of the dazzling beauty.

      Lord Rockley was intrigued.

      As the festivities got under way and proceeded in grand style, sensing she was being watched, Christina turned her head slightly, her eyes lighting on a man who had made no effort to present himself. He stood several yards away from her by one of the windows. With hands clasped behind his back, legs a little apart, he seemed to carry about him a kind of lethal charge—the air immediately about him held an indefinably vibrant quality that kept one at bay—like the bars around a panther’s cage. The comparison was apt, for there was something very panther-like about him.

      He had an air of careless unconcern as he studied her with unswerving regard. It was as if he had just landed there by chance. With his skin bronzed from seeing active service in foreign parts, he looked completely at odds when compared with the pink-faced, well-fed local gentry.

      He was a man with thick, dark brown hair, which he wore drawn back, and was very tall with a lean, rangy look that gave an impression of dangerous vitality. He had the bold profile of a predatory hawk in the midst of a gathering of tame peacocks, which gave him a somewhat proud and insolent appearance. Even the slender brown hands emerging from the broad, embroidered cuffs of his frock-coat СКАЧАТЬ