The Cinderella Countess. Sophia James

Чтение книги онлайн.

       Chapter Two

      Miss Smith was sitting on the front doorstep of her Whitechapel house when his carriage pulled up to the corner on the dot of nine. She held a large wicker basket in front of her, covered almost entirely by a dark blue cloth.

      The oddness of a woman waiting alone outside her home and completely on time had Lytton waving away the footman as he jumped down to the ground.

      Miss Annabelle Smith appeared pleased to see him as she stood, her hand shading her face and the odd shape of her hat sending a shadow down one side of her cheek.

      ‘I thought perhaps you might have decided not to come,’ she said, her fingers keeping the cloth on her basket anchored in the growing breeze.

      The heightened notice of her as a woman he’d felt yesterday returned this morning and Lytton shoved it away.

      ‘My chaperon will be here in just a moment as Aunt Alicia would not settle until I agreed to have her with me. I hope that is all right with you, your lordship?’

      She knew, now, how to address him. He found himself missing the ‘my lord Earl’.

      ‘Of course.’ The words sounded more distant than he had meant them to be. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, and there was a cut on her thumb. He hoped the injury had not come about in the preparation of his sister’s medicines.

      Pulling the three pounds he had ready from his pocket, he offered them to her.

      ‘If it is too much I quite understand,’ she said, but he shook his head.

      ‘I can afford it, Miss Smith, and I am grateful that you would consent to attending my sister at such short notice.’

      The same velvet purse he had seen yesterday came out of her pocket, the notes carefully tucked within it.

      ‘It will be useful to buy more supplies for those who cannot pay. There are many such folk here.’

      ‘You have lived in this house for a while?’

      ‘We have, your lordship. It is rented, but it is home.’

      ‘Yet you do not speak with the accent of the East End?’

      She looked away, distracted as the same woman he had seen yesterday joined them, busy fingers tying the ribbons on her bonnet.

      ‘This is my friend, Mrs Rosemary Greene.’

      ‘We met briefly yesterday. Ma’am.’ He tipped his head and the older woman blushed dark red, but was saved from answering as Annabelle Smith caught at her arm and shepherded her towards the conveyance. When the footman helped each of them up Miss Smith took a deep breath, giving Lytton the impression she did not much wish to get in. He took the seat opposite them as the door closed, listening to the horses being called on.

      ‘Did you ever read the fairy tale Cendrillon by Charles Perrault, your lordship?’ Her dimples were on display, picked out by the incoming sunshine.

      ‘I did, Miss Smith.’

      ‘Your carriage reminds me of that. Ornate and absurdly comfortable.’

      ‘You read it in French?’

      ‘When I was a child I lived in France for a time with my aunt.’

      The traffic at this time of the morning was busy and they were travelling so slowly it seemed as if all of London was on the road.

      The silence inside the carriage lengthened, their last exchange throwing up questions. She did not give the impression of one born abroad for her words held only the accent of English privilege and wealth. How could that be?

      He hoped like hell that any of his extended family would not converge on his town house this morning, for he wanted to allow Miss Smith some time to talk with his sister by herself. His mother would be present, of course, but she was lost in her own sadness these days and appeared befuddled most of the time. Today such confusion would aid him.

      It was as if Lucy’s sickness had ripped the heart out of the Thorntons and trampled any happiness underfoot. It was probably why he had taken up with Susan Castleton to be honest, Lytton thought, her sense of devil-may-care just the attitude he had needed to counter the constant surge of melancholy.

      Miss Smith was watching the passing streets with interest, her fingers laced together and still. When they went around a sharp corner, though, as their speed increased he saw her grasp at the seat beneath her, each knuckle white.

      ‘It is perfectly safe. My driver is one of the most skilled in London.’

      Blue eyes washed over him and then looked back to the outside vistas.

      ‘People more usually come to see me, your lordship.’

      ‘You СКАЧАТЬ