A Convenient Gentleman. Victoria Aldridge

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СКАЧАТЬ trousers. ‘Why don’t you see me instead, eh?’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’ she began blankly, wondering what conceivable interest the little man thought she would have in his belt. A second before his trousers dropped to his knees a tall body interposed itself between them.

      ‘I think, madam, you should leave.’

      She looked up to an unshaven, weary face of indeterminate age.

      ‘I’m here to see Mr Thwaites,’ she said tersely, resenting the light pressure being exerted on her upper arm. She was not used to being manhandled.

      ‘Then I suggest another time, madam. In the morning, perhaps.’ He turned her around to face the door, raising his elbow as he did so and accidentally jabbing the throat of a man who was about to lunge at her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said politely as his victim staggered back with a yelp. ‘Very careless of me.’

      There was a grumbled chorus of disappointment as she was marched to the door, but no one impeded their progress. Within seconds she was back out on the veranda, rigid with rage and the cold.

      ‘I’m not going to thank you, you know!’ she snapped.

      ‘I wouldn’t dream of presuming that you would, madam.’

      ‘I only went in there to see someone,’ she went on, cross with herself that she had to somehow justify what was now apparent as recklessness.

      ‘I think you were about to see quite a lot for a young lady,’ he said evenly. Despite her humiliation and anger his voice intrigued her, with its clipped perfect enunciation that she had only ever heard before in the Governor-General’s residence in New South Wales. Her mother would have been most impressed.

      But not if she had seen him. His clothes were old and worn, his hair was unkempt and—Caro could not help but wrinkle her nose—he smelt, mostly of drink. I should feel sorry for him, she reminded herself, but that was impossible. Someone who looked like a tramp had no right to the irritating mannerism of sounding apologetic when he plainly was not. She met his gaze squarely and then rather wished she hadn’t. There was a deadness in his brown eyes that chilled her. She found herself wondering if he was really even seeing her.

      ‘Well, I suppose I should thank you,’ she began indifferently, but already he had turned on his heel and returned to the bar with only the most cursory of nods. Incensed by his rudeness, she thought for a moment about following him back in and telling him what she thought, before common sense prevailed. Drawing her shawl tightly against the cold, she turned back into the hotel.

      The foyer was still dimly lit, but no longer deserted. Charlotte was there, talking in rapid, hushed tones to a tall, well-dressed man in his thirties who was leaning nonchalantly against the desk, apparently listening to her with only half his attention. His pale eyes swept over Caro with the appreciation of a connoisseur as she made her entrance in a flurry of snowflakes.

      ‘Well, well, well. Now, you must be the niece,’ he said softly as he straightened up. ‘There’s no mistaking the resemblance.’

      ‘Oh, Caroline, there you are!’ Her aunt seemed flustered, her fingers working nervously at the fine silk shawl clutched around her shoulders. ‘Come and meet Harold, darling.’

      ‘Miss Morgan,’ he murmured, extending his hand. ‘What an unexpected pleasure. Although I’d never expect Charlotte to have a niece who wasn’t utterly lovely.’ Caro was well used to flattery, and this man was obviously a close friend of her aunt’s, but still she hesitated before offering her hand to him. When he brought it to his lips she had to make a real effort not to flinch away. She wasn’t sure why she should react to him so—perhaps it was his boldness or air of absolute confidence. He seemed to mistake her unease for shyness and he held her hand for much too long, amusement lighting the etched lines of his face. The word ‘dissolute’ flashed into Caro’s mind.

      ‘Where have you been?’ Charlotte said to the man beside her with just a trace of reproach in her voice. ‘I couldn’t find you in your room when that dreadful Oliver was threatening me…’

      ‘Come now, Charlotte,’ Harold said in tolerant amusement. ‘He merely told you he was leaving your employment.’

      ‘But it was the manner in which he told me! He was so rude, Harold—you’ve no idea!’ She pouted prettily.

      ‘You should try paying your staff, my dear—then I can guarantee they won’t be rude to you.’

      ‘Oh, don’t preach so. You know I hate it.’ She looked up at him appealingly. ‘Now what shall I do? There’s only the cook and that silly chit of a girl left now—and goodness knows how long they’ll stay. I’ll have to shut the hotel down soon!’

      He shrugged as if Charlotte’s problems were entirely trivial. ‘Let’s talk about it over dinner, shall we?’

      ‘I’m sure I could find something in the kitchen,’ Caro began uncertainly, but Harold and her aunt turned to her with looks of genuine surprise.

      ‘We’ll eat elsewhere, tonight,’ Harold said firmly. ‘We can’t have you cooking, Miss Morgan. That would never do.’ He held out an arm to each of them. ‘Come along, ladies.’

      Charlotte snuggled into his side with alacrity, but Caro held back. That they should dine out elsewhere when her aunt owned this huge hotel and could not afford to even pay the staff seemed completely nonsensical. However, Harold remained where he was, arm outstretched, his smile not faltering, and it seemed churlish to refuse him.

      ‘I’ll just get my coat,’ she said hurriedly and ran upstairs so that she would not have to take his arm. In her room she stood for a moment, struggling to regain her composure. Encountering Mr Thwaites so soon after the unpleasant episode in the bar had left her head whirling. She didn’t like him, and she didn’t understand the relationship between him and her aunt. She thought for a moment about excusing herself from dinner, but a low growl from her stomach reminded her that her last meal had been well over twelve hours ago. At least if she went she would be fed. She changed into her stout boots, buttoned her coat up to the neck and went downstairs.

      The snow was still falling thickly when they stepped outside and a bitter wind had sprung up, making visibility past a few yards impossible and piling the snow in drifts along the side of the road. The Castledene bar was doing a roaring trade judging from the raucous sounds coming from within. Despite herself, Caro edged a little closer to Harold as they passed.

      Along an almost-deserted Princes Street he led them to another hotel, nowhere as near as grand as the Castledene, but where they were welcomed into a very pleasant dining room by a neatly uniformed maid.

      ‘Somewhere close to the fire, please,’ said Charlotte with a shiver in her voice. It was then that Caro realised that her aunt had not put on a coat, but was still wearing only the silk shawl over her evening dress. As they took their seats at a table close to the fireplace, Charlotte removed the by-now sodden shawl and Caro’s jaw dropped. Her aunt’s pale-blue satin gown was beautifully cut and obviously very expensive, but the sleeves were almost non-existent and Caro was sure that with one deep breath her aunt would reveal far more than could ever be deemed socially decent. The waiter, on his way over to them with the menu, collided into another diner’s chair in his stunned state.

      ‘Aunt Charlotte,’ she whispered urgently.

      ‘Yes, darling?’

      ‘Aren’t СКАЧАТЬ