Miss Fortescue's Protector In Paris. Amanda McCabe

Чтение книги онлайн.

       Chapter Five

      The Poseidon Club wasn’t too busy yet when Chris arrived the next evening, which was just the way he liked it. A few moments just to sit by the fire, have a cognac brought to him by the wonderfully silent, wonderfully understanding staff, pretend to read a newspaper and just be alone for once. No one expecting him to be full of jovial chatter about the latest horse race, the prettiest new dancer at Drury Lane, some new mischievous scheme.

      For a few moments, he could just—be. Be quiet, be still, be himself. The Poseidon, where he had long been a member, was a haven, at least early in the evening, before the crowds arrived to drink and play cards.

      But maybe it would not be such a haven tonight. As Chris paused in the doorway to the library, handing his overcoat to the attendant, he studied the dark-panelled, leather-upholstered room. It was the usual gathering at such an hour—a foursome of older gentlemen who had served together in the army in India and met every day for a hand of piquet by the windows. The Duke of Amberley, escaping his social-butterfly Duchess in a bottle of brandy, a couple of people reading the papers. He could hear the click of a game in the adjoining billiards room.

      And Mr Albert Fortescue, slowly turning over the pages of the Express, a distracted frown on his face. Chris knew Emily’s father was a member, yet he was very seldom seen at the club, being so busy with his business affairs. Chris was startled to see him there that day, as if his earlier memories of Emily had conjured him up in the library. He had not seen the Fortescues for a while. Now Emily seemed to be in his thoughts wherever he turned.

      It made him feel strangely discomfited. Mr Fortescue glanced up and gave Chris a polite nod. He didn’t seem to know any of Chris’s past with Emily, or any of his wild thoughts now. Chris nodded back,and hurried to his usual armchair by the fire, which was not burning on a warm night. An attendant appeared with his usual cognac and newspapers.

      ‘A double today, Mr Blakely,’ the man murmured. ‘If you’ll forgive me saying so, you look as if you can use it.’

      Chris laughed. ‘I can indeed, Ralph. You are a mind reader.’

      Left alone again, Chris took a deep gulp of the spirit and stared into the empty marble grate. It had been damp day, the grey sky a reflection of his own swirling mood. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on the day’s work at the office, his thoughts on the Paris business, on a possible future in St Petersburg.

      He also hadn’t been able to shake away those memories of Emily. He didn’t know why she haunted him now. Any other woman would have faded by this time. But she lingered, like the sweet scent of her French perfume. He so often worked to prove himself to her, though she would never, could never, know that.

      He knew he had to take that Paris assignment, and then Russia, if he was lucky enough to have it come his way. Maybe it could mean the end of the way he had been living for so long, the end of the secrets, the acting. Ellersmere was right—it had once been exciting, now it felt tiring. Maybe he could even begin to hope for a life such as William had, respect, a family, a wife. Things he longed for when he saw their happiness, but which he dared not want for himself.

      Chris frowned, trying to imagine what such a life might be like. He had been so caught up for so long in his own work that he wasn’t even sure what a ‘normal’ life should be. He had certainly never seen it with his own parents. Even William and Diana, clearly deeply in love to all who saw them together, were hardly conventional. They moved from royal court to royal court for Will’s career, with Diana doing her writing.

      Chris almost laughed to think of himself ensconced in cosy domesticity, a town house in Mayfair, draped in fringed curtains and decorated with nice landscapes and silver-framed photos, smelling of beeswax polish and lavender. A plump, smiling, pretty wife playing at her piano, making sure Cook had the roast on the dinner table at the right hour. No, he couldn’t face that. But what Will and Di had, a partnership...

      That he could just almost imagine. Almost even want.

      He suddenly pictured Emily sitting across from him at a desk, going over her own business ledgers as he read her invitations from Russian nobility, deciding on which they should accept. She looked up at him, laughing as he put on a haughty Grand Duke accent, her hazel eyes shining...