The carriage rocked to a halt.
‘This must be it,’ Hope said, her voice awed. ‘Goodness!’
Liberty was momentarily distracted as thunder growled in the distance, a stark reminder of the most terrible day in her life—the day she had learned that not only both her beloved parents, but also Bernard, had succumbed to the outbreak of cholera that swept through their village while Liberty had been enjoying dress fittings in London in preparation for her debut. She had not even glimpsed the inside of a ballroom before receiving that urgent summons to return home.
She thrust down the memory that still had the power to bring hot, stinging tears to her eyes and peered through the rain that streamed down the window. She gulped. This was Beauchamp House? It was huge. Magnificent. Intimidating. It was not a house, but a mansion. Stretching for five wide bays, it would swallow several houses such as their modest rented abode in Green Street. A new surge of doubt as to her plan swept over Liberty, but she had come this far and she wouldn’t allow herself to back away now. She gathered her courage, flung open the carriage door, grabbed her oilskin umbrella and, opening it, thrust it out of the door into the deluge. Lightning flickered and she braced herself for the next rumble of thunder. Was the storm getting closer? There were several seconds before the sound reached her ears—it sounded more distant than before and she released her pent-up breath. She gave herself no time for further qualms. Bilk handed her down and she hurried up the steps to the imposing front door of Beauchamp House, which remained firmly shut.
She lifted the brass knocker—so highly polished it gleamed even in the unnatural yellowish-grey afternoon light—and let it fall. Then she waited, irritation clambering over any nerves she felt at facing such a powerful nobleman. What was taking so long? ‘Where—?’
‘Might I be of assistance?’
She whipped around. A carriage was drawing away from the front of the house, presumably after depositing this man...her darting gaze settled on his face, half-shielded by his own umbrella, and she gasped, her stomach clenching with anger. She held fast to her courage and straightened her spine even though her knees quaked. This close, she was only too conscious of Lord Alexander Beauchamp’s daunting presence—his height and the width of his shoulders spoke of a powerful man.
‘I have come to speak to your father about your behaviour.’
He stiffened, his dark brows slashed into a forbidding frown. ‘I beg your pardon?’
As she opened her mouth, he held up his hand, palm forward, effectively silencing her. ‘Apart from the fact that you and I have never met, madam, I regret to inform you that the Duke is not in residence.’ He brushed past her to the door.
‘We may indeed never have met, my lord, but I know who you are.’ Liberty set her jaw. She’d recognise Lord Alexander Beauchamp anywhere, even though she’d only ever glimpsed him in the distance as he gaily led her brother astray. ‘The knocker is on the door.’ She summoned her very haughtiest tone. ‘That means the family is in residence.’
‘A member of the family, maybe, but that member is not my father. Now, if you will excuse me? You might relish being out in such weather, but I can assure you I do not.’ The door began to open. ‘I suggest you put your grievance into writing. If you have it delivered here it will be forwarded on to my father for his attention, you have my word.’
The word of a rackety rakehell!
The door opened fully to reveal a liveried footman.
‘Sorry, milord,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I was downstairs when I heard the knock.’
‘No need for apologies, William. This—’ Liberty stiffened, detecting the faint curl of his upper lip as His Lordship looked her up and down ‘—person wished to speak to my father. I have advised her to write to him.’
He handed his dripping umbrella to the servant and strode into the hall. Despair spread its tentacles through Liberty, squeezing her lungs. Coming here to confront the Duke had been a risk, but at least she would have had an opportunity to use her powers of persuasion. A letter could be all too easily dismissed. It was true she had never met Alexander, but perhaps if he knew who she was...? If she could appeal to his better nature...?
‘Lord Alexander! Please!’ She tried to dodge around the footman, who foiled her attempts using His Lordship’s still-open umbrella. ‘Wait, I beg of you.’
Once she succeeded in knocking aside that umbrella, she could see His Lordship had stopped and now faced her, a look of weary resignation on his face. Encouraged, she discarded her own umbrella on the doorstep and rushed towards him, darting around the still-protesting footman.
‘Please. May we talk? I am Gideon’s sister.’
His brows snapped together, forming once again a dark slash across his forehead. ‘Gideon? Who is Gideon?’
‘Lord Wendover.’
‘You have my sympathy.’
Liberty bridled. ‘If you think so little of him, why do you spend so much time together?’
He looked beyond her. ‘William—take the lady’s coat and bonnet, if you please. Ask Mrs Himley to send wine and cakes to the drawing room, and find a maid to sit with us—’ He looked Liberty up and down before fixing his gaze on her face. The chill in his light-coloured eyes sent a shiver through her. ‘For propriety’s sake,’ he continued. ‘You might have no compunction about calling upon your social superiors not only uninvited but also unchaperoned, madam, but a man cannot be too careful.’
The nerve of him! ‘My sister is in the carriage outside,’ said Liberty, shedding her dripping cloak. ‘She was too afraid to come in and speak to your father.’
‘Too afraid or too sensible? I suspect the latter. Perhaps you would be wise to pay more attention to your sister’s instincts.’ His bored tone sent Liberty’s temper soaring. ‘Invite her to join us, William, if you please. She cannot wait outside. But I shall still require a maid,’ he called after the departing footman.
He eyed Liberty again, from head to toe, and she squirmed inside. She had donned her best Pomona-green bombazine afternoon dress for this visit to the Duke, but His Lordship’s impassive inspection made her feel as though she was dressed in rags. It was not the height of fashion—she had been unable to reconcile herself to wasting money on new gowns when she had a trunk full of barely worn dresses and accessories from five years ago—but it was respectable.
‘One cannot be too careful.’
He means for himself! He is not concerned with my reputation, only that I might try to entrap him!
Liberty squared her shoulders and elevated her chin. ‘The drawing room, sir?’ She was proud of the haughty tone she achieved.
Utterly unruffled, he strolled to a nearby door and opened it. ‘This way, ma’am.’ His tone conveyed bored amusement.
She swept through, head high. How dare he treat her as though she were of no consequence? Although, she had to admit it was humiliation that spurred her rage. Undoubtedly, to a duke’s son, she was inconsequential. He followed her inside the elegantly furnished room with its vermilion-painted walls above white-painted wainscoting, its high ceiling with elaborately moulded cornice and three tall windows dressed with delicately sprigged floor-length curtains.
‘You are suffering under a misapprehension.’
She started at the voice behind her. She halted her inspection of the room and turned to find him closer than she anticipated. Nerves fluttered deep in her belly as she got her first good look at his pale silvery-grey eyes and the utter confidence they conveyed. And why should they not? Not only was he the son of one of the most powerful Dukes in the land but he was sinfully, classically handsome with a straight nose, sharp cheekbones and a beautifully sculpted mouth above a determined chin. Those silvery eyes of his seemed to penetrate deep inside her and yet they