The Outrageous Belle Marchmain. Lucy Ashford

what he should have done—the thought occurred to him time after time, usually at damnably inconvenient moments like now—was take her in his arms. Hold her close. Drown out those defiant protests of hers with a kiss …

      Definitely time to get back to his guests, and his railway.

      It was Belle, and she was standing on the pavement at the far end of Clarges Street, arguing with Matt. ‘This will do, Matt!’ she announced firmly after letting herself out. ‘I can walk the rest of the way, I assure you.’

      Matt Bellamy, up on his seat, frowned down at her. ‘Here, Mrs Marchmain? But we’re not quite there yet.’

      I know, thought Belle tightly. And no way on earth am I going to risk allowing Mr Davenant or his servants to see me arriving in this rickety old coach.

      She’d tried already to shut the carriage door, but failed; now she tried again. Blast, it was nearly falling off its hinges.

      She’d hoped to make an impression arriving outside Mr Davenant’s house and had asked Matt to borrow something suitable from his brother’s stables. But when Matt had turned up outside her shop at half-past two with this, Belle had been secretly horrified.

      And the door still wouldn’t shut. She tried again; this time the handle came off in her hand. Somehow she rammed it back. Matt had jumped down now from the driver’s seat to hold the horses and was simply gaping at the four-storeyed, cream-stuccoed dwellings that surrounded them.

      Belle resisted the same impulse to let her own jaw drop. She’d known, of course, that Davenant dwelt in the most exclusive part of London. But the thought of confronting him in one of these magnificent mansions made her heart quail with in her.

      It was four days since Edward had called at her shop with his dire news. She’d written twice to Davenant requesting an appointment and heard precisely nothing, so she’d decided there was no alternative but to confront him in his lair. Sternly quelling her apprehension, she’d dressed appropriately and left her shop in Gabrielle’s capable hands.

      Of course, appropriate wouldn’t be the word most people would use for her twill silk gown of turquoise and pink or her snug-fitting pink jacket. Appropriate didn’t perhaps apply to her large straw hat adorned with turquoise satin ribbons. Oh, dear. When she’d put on the outfit she’d felt full of confidence. But now she was feeling rather sick.

      Davenant’s grandfather made the family fortunes from tin mining, she remembered Edward saying scornfully. But as she gazed down Clarges Street, she felt her breath catch in her throat because the miner’s grandson had done rather well for himself.

      Still standing by the rickety coach, she smoothed the sleeves of her jacket, adjusted her straw bonnet and emphasised to Matt a little too brightly, ‘This will most definitely do, Matt. Return the vehicle, will you? I shan’t be wanting you again.’

      Big Matt set his face obstinately. ‘Don’t seem right, Mrs Marchmain, leaving you here alone, callin’ on an unknown gentleman.’

      Belle very much wanted to say crisply to Matt and to anyone else within hearing, ‘Believe me, Adam Davenant is no gentleman!’ But that would simply make poor Matt even more anxious; so instead she retorted, ‘Matt, I’m a twenty-seven-year-old widow and, as you see, I’m at no risk whatsoever in a neighbourhood like this. There is absolutely no need for you to stay. Besides,’ she added in a moment of inspiration, ‘Gabby will be expecting you. You promised her you’d fix that loose counter in the workshop today, remember?’

      As she spoke she was horribly conscious that halfway down Clarges Street a couple of liveried footmen stood on the steps of the biggest house of them all, gossiping in the sun. She’d been aware for some time that the footmen were staring in her direction and felt newly embarrassed by the scruffy equipage and the presence of loyal Matt in his ancient greatcoat and battered hat.

      ‘Won’t you want escortin’ home afterwards, ma’am?’ frowned Matt.

      ‘I shall walk,’ Belle announced. ‘I shall enjoy the fresh air.’

      ‘But …’

      Just then the door handle fell off again; she kicked it under the carriage. ‘Matt!’ she hissed. ‘Please—just go!’

      Matt, his burly visage expressive, heaved himself back on to the driving seat. Belle found herself urging his departure under her breath rather frantically. Then, lifting her head high, she set off down Clarges Street. The footmen watched her as she drew nearer.

      She knew it. She knew, before she reached them.

      They were outside Adam Davenant’s house. They were his footmen. Oh, drat and botheration. And they had seen everything; the ancient carriage, Matt, herself kicking the blasted door handle out of sight …

      They had sprung to attention, stiff-faced, their arms straight at their sides, but Belle had seen a hint of malicious humour in their eyes.

      ‘Is this Mr Davenant’s house?’ she asked crisply.

      ‘This is Mr Davenant’s residence—ma’am.’

      ‘Then I wish to speak to him, if you please. And before you ask, I have not an appointment, though I have written to him twice informing him that—that it is in his interests to see me.’

      The footman’s lips pursed. ‘Mr Davenant happens to have company.’

      ‘Then I will wait.’

      The impudent scoundrel almost sniffed. ‘Very well, madam. I will take you to await Mr Davenant’s convenience.’

      ‘But …’ Belle bit her lip. She didn’t exactly have a choice, did she? He held the door open; she sailed inside.

      Oh, my. This place was incredible. Her entire shop would fit inside this lofty hallway, with its huge chandeliers and sweeping staircase. Money from mining and quarrying, she reminded herself steadily. Money from other men’s back-breaking toil.

      The footman—who she reckoned might stop breathing soon if he lifted his nose any higher in disdain—ushered her along the vast hallway to a room that led off it, pointed her inside, then disappeared, closing the door rather firmly on her as he left.

      She was too agitated to notice much, beyond the fact that she could hear the sounds of loud male talk and laughter from upstairs. Would the sneering footman trouble to deliver her message? Would the hateful Mr Davenant even bother to leave his rowdy companions and grant her a few minutes’ audience? She paced to and fro. This had to be one of her stupidest ideas ever.

      Suddenly she heard a man’s bellow of rage from out in the hallway, then the pattering of feet and the sounds of a girl sobbing. Just as she turned towards the door it burst open and a young maidservant tottered in, clearly in a state of some distress. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

      The maid saw Belle. ‘Oh! I beg pardon, miss, I’m sure!’ Knuckling the tears from her eyes, the girl was already turning to hurry away, but Belle grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘What is it, my dear?’

      The girl, in her white cap and apron, was shaking. ‘Nothin’. It’s nothin’, miss …’ She hurried out again into the hall, Belle following. But the girl stopped with a low cry when she saw, from the other direction, an extravagantly dressed, fair-haired man prowling towards her with an unpleasant smile on his face. ‘Now, what’s all this, missy?’ he said to the cowering maid. ‘I thought we were having a pleasant conversation. Not trying to run from me, are you?’

      This time it was Belle who let out a gasp of shock. She knew this smooth-tongued aristocrat whom some would call handsome. Her stomach clenched. Dear God, if this man was a friend of Davenant’s, things were even worse than she’d thought.

      Belle said to the young maid quickly, ‘I will see to this. Go, now.’ The maid scurried off, still sobbing. The man lurched closer—clearly he had been drinking, she could smell it. He was staring down at her. ‘By God. Mrs Marchmain. Well, isn’t this a