Fallen Angel. Sophia James

the Duke of Westbourne,’ she told herself sternly and was disturbed by the dash of anger that threaded her eyes.

      Chapter Three

      Nicholas entered the orphanage in Beaumont Street just after eleven o’clock. He’d had his secretary make an appointment for him to view the place in the guise of becoming a financial patron using a secondary title of his, the Earl of Deuxberry. He hoped Brenna Stanhope would forgive him the deception if she saw him, knowing otherwise he may not even get a foot in the door.

      The corridor was crammed full of children’s paintings, and the sound of a piano and voices could be heard coming from a room towards the back of the house. As he entered he was met almost immediately by a tiny grey-haired woman, who thrust out her hand in introduction.

      ‘I’m Mrs Betsy Plummer, the Matron here,’ she said kindly, ‘and I presume you are Lord Deuxberry.’ She inclined her head as if unsure of the protocol involved when addressing the titled peerage, looking up as a question came nervously to her lips. ‘We understand you may be interested in lending your patronage to Beaumont Street? Lord knows we could do with some.’ She reddened at the realisation of her blasphemy.

      Amusement filled the Duke’s eyes and then query as music sifted through the thick walls. ‘The music is lovely.’

      ‘Yes. That’s Miss Stanhope on the piano. She’s the lady who opened the place, you see.’

      ‘May I be allowed to watch the lesson?’

      ‘Well…not normally,’ she faltered, frowning heavily. ‘But perhaps there is a way around it. If you’re very quiet, we could observe from the upstairs balcony. That shouldn’t disturb them at all.’

      Following the woman up a narrow staircase, he entered a room filled with sunlight, a balcony overhanging the hall beneath them.

      ‘This is far enough. Miss Stanhope is very particular about her privacy.’

      Nicholas looked down in the direction of her gesture, and the sight of Brenna, hair down and playing to the children, assailed him with all the force of a salvo fired at close range.

      She was beautiful and completely changed from the deliberately dour woman who had greeted him two days ago in her London drawing room. Today, curly dark hair fell in a glorious curtain to her waist and her violet eyes sparkled with playfulness as she rose from the piano and formed the children into a circle, taking a hanky from the sleeve of her navy blue gown and wiping the nose of a carrot-topped toddler who clung to her skirt.

      ‘Oh, my goodness, Tim, I hope it is not you next with the sickness. Laura is quite enough for now.’ The boy smiled as she ruffled his hair and joined up all their hands. ‘Let’s sing “Ring a Ring a Rosie”, shall we? I’ll start you off.’ Breaking into the circle, she began to chant the words of the ditty, falling down at the end just as all the children did.

      ‘Excellent. Only this time let’s not fall on me.’ A laughing voice came from the very bottom of the pile and, reassembling them, she went to begin again. Nicholas felt a hand pulling him back and reluctantly drew his eyes away from the sight before him.

      ‘I’ll take you to the office now. Perhaps I could show you some of our hopes for the place and for the children.’

      The door shut behind them as the music faded, though Nicholas stood still for a second, breathing in deeply to try to mitigate the effect Miss Brenna Stanhope seemed destined to wreak upon him. God, she was so lovely and so different from any other woman he had ever come across. Working for a living, and here? His eyes flickered to the mouldy ceilings and rusty pipes, as the reports of Sir Michael De Lancey’s financial problems came into mind. Where was the music and dancing and laughter with her peers that a beautiful woman like her should have. She was only twenty-four and hardly the matron her lifestyle espoused her to be. Dark violet eyes and dimples and a face that should be etched upon the surface of some ecclesiastical ceiling came so forcibly to mind that he had to shake his head in an attempt to regain a lost semblance of reality. With an effort he made himself follow Mrs Plummer into an office.

      ‘Does Miss Stanhope come here often?’ Nicholas asked, trying to appear indifferent to the answer.

      ‘Yes, indeed. She teaches three days a week and spends most evenings here. Her uncle has funded much of it, you see, but has fallen on harder times, so now we have to put out our feelers, so to speak.’ She looked slightly nervous again. ‘We try to keep our costs down to the minimum but, as you can appreciate, the whole task is a bit daunting given the age of this building and the needs of this community…’ Mrs Plummer was finding her tongue with growing gusto and it was almost ten minutes later when Nicholas was able to interrupt.

      ‘What I have seen has impressed me greatly. If you would like to put your figures together and send them to my secretary, I’m sure we could be of assistance.’

      Mentioning a large sum of money, he leaned across the table and wrote down a name and address.

      ‘It has been most interesting, Mrs Plummer.’ He could hear that the music in the background had stopped and suddenly he had no desire to have Brenna Stanhope discover him here. Not now. Not yet. ‘And I am sure we shall be seeing each other again.’ Opening the door, he strode down the hallway to the outside sunshine and was pleased to see his man ready and waiting with the horses.

      Betsy Plummer watched as he entered his coach and then she hurried back inside as soon as the conveyance had turned the corner.

      ‘Brenna, Kate,’ she called loudly, her voice shrill with unquestioned elation. ‘We got it, he’s promised us so much.’ Two faces came into sight, whooping with laughter and relief. ‘And you should see him, girls,’ Betsy added slowly. ‘He’s the most handsome man I think I’ve ever seen.’

      Warning bells rang in Brenna’s ears. ‘What did you say his name was again, Betsy?’ she asked slowly, fearing the answer.

      ‘The Earl of Deuxberry,’ crooned the other, and Brenna expelled her indrawn breath with relief.

      The months aged into November and the summer weather seemed all but gone. Brenna settled again into her comfortable, untroubled existence now that Nicholas Pencarrow seemed happy to leave her alone, though at nights sometimes, when the business of the day had receded, she allowed herself to daydream about him. Quietly at first and then with more ardour, the Duke of Westbourne’s gold-green eyes and lopsided smile invaded her fantasies, leaving her with a feeling of guilty pleasure in the morning and a firming resolution to put him from her memory.

      At Beaumont Street things had become more agreeable, for under the patronage of Lord Deuxberry much of the old leaking plumbing had been fixed and the dormitories had been lined to make them warmer as they awaited the onslaught of winter. His chits came with a regularity no one dared to question and all hoped would continue, for, apart from the first visit, they had never dealt with him again directly, but rather with his chief secretary, a dour-faced but competent man called Winslop.

      Today Mr Winslop had come to call with invitations in hand, one each for Brenna, Betsy and Kate, asking them to a supper Lord Deuxberry was hosting at his home in Kensington. Brenna felt uneasy as the man spelled out what would be expected of them.

      ‘His Lordship has made it very clear he would like the three of you to come. I think he may be ill pleased were this not to be the case as he has gone to some trouble to assemble an audience whose patronage would be forthcoming should you promote your orphanage well. It will not be too formal. If the weather is kind it may even spill out into the conservatory and, if not, all three drawing rooms will be in commission.’

      Kate and Betsy looked at each other as they imagined the magnificence of the house. Brenna stared straight ahead and knew exactly what it would be like. Her one year out in the season had been so indelibly impressed on her mind, how could she not remember? The staff would stand at attention whilst cynical well-dressed men and women would condescendingly dissect their mission, their clothes, their manners and their looks, piece by piece until there was little left. And the worst of it was that