66 The Love Pirate Read online

  It was impossible to imagine that a woman could be more beautiful than Gertrude and, although when she swept into the room, she looked like the Snow Queen, he found that in bed she was fiery and tempestuous and at times insatiable.

  ‘What is wrong with me?’ Lord Saire asked himself, as he walked down the platform. ‘Why do I tire so easily, why does no woman in my life ever satisfy me for long?’

  He knew that he could if he wished have almost any woman who took his fancy, in fact, as d’Arcy had said, they fell into his arms too easily.

  He seldom sought a love affair. It was just thrust upon him and it was the women who did the thrusting.

  ‘Thank God I am going away,’ he said to himself, knowing that to extricate himself from Gertrude’s arms would not be easy.

  It would be quite impossible to explain to her why his feelings had changed and why she no longer interested him.

  When he stepped out of the train, the platform had been extremely crowded, but now most of the passengers had departed and there were only the porters trundling their piled trucks from the guard’s van towards the exit.

  There were quite a number of them and Lord Saire was walking behind a porter whose truck was piled so high that it was impossible to see over it when suddenly there was a cry.

  The porter came to an abrupt standstill so that Lord Saire almost ran into him.

  Since they had both heard the cry of a woman in distress, the two men moved round the side of the truck to see that there was a girl lying on the ground.

  Lord Saire bent down to assist her to her feet and he realised that her hands had gone out to her ankle.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “Just my – foot,” she answered. “It is – nothing much,”

  He saw in fact that her instep, which protruded beneath the hem of her skirt, was bleeding and her stocking was torn.

  “I’m real sorry, miss,” the porter said from the other side of her, “I didn’t see you and that’s the truth.”

  “It was not your fault,” the girl answered in a soft gentle voice. “I was looking round to see if anyone had come to meet me.”

  “Do you think if I assist you that you can stand up?” Lord Saire asked.

  She smiled up at him and he had an impression of very large eyes in a pale face. He put his hands under her arms and lifted her gently.

  She gave a tiny exclamation of pain, then, as she straightened herself, she said bravely,

  “I will be – all right– I am sorry to be such a – trouble.”

  “I don’t think any bones are broken,’ Lord Saire said, “but, of course, one never knows.”

  “It will be all right,” the girl said determinedly, “and thank you very much for helping me.”

  “Do you think you can walk as far as the entrance?” Lord Saire suggested. “Perhaps you have a carriage to meet you.”

  “I thought Mama might have been on the platform,” the girl answered, “but I am sure that she has sent a carriage.”

  “Suppose you take my arm?” Lord Saire offered. “It’s not very far. I think it would take rather a long time to find you a wheelchair.”

  “No, of course, I can walk,” she answered.

  He proffered his arm and, leaning on it, she managed to walk slowly, although obviously her foot was hurting her.

  It was, as Lord Saire had said, not far to the entrance and outside the station there were a number of carriages including his own brougham.

  The girl looked up and down and then she said with a little sigh,

  “I cannot see anything for me. Perhaps a porter could find me a hackney carriage.”

  “I will take you home,” Lord Saire proposed.

  “Oh – please – I don’t wish to be a nuisance – and you have been so kind already.”

  “It will be no trouble,” he answered.

  He led her to the door of his brougham and the footman, very smart in a long brown livery coat and brown cockaded top hat, held open the door.

  Lord Saire helped the girl inside and sat beside her whilst the footman placed a sable-lined rug over their knees.

  “Where do you live?” Lord Saire asked.

  “92 Park Lane.”

  He gave the order to the footman, who closed the door and the horses started off.

  “You are very kind,” his passenger said in a low voice. “It was so – foolish of me not to notice the truck before it – knocked me down.”

  Lord Saire smiled kindly.

  “I have a feeling you are new to London.”

  “I have not been here for some years.”

  “What about your luggage?”

  “The school will arrange to have it delivered to my home. It always annoys Mama when she meets me and has to wait while I get my trunk out of the guard’s van.”

  “Perhaps we had better introduce ourselves,” Lord Saire said. “As you have no luggage, I cannot peep at the label on it, as I might otherwise have done.”

  The girl smiled as he intended her to do.

  “My name is Bertilla Alvinston.”

  “I know your mother!” Lord Saire exclaimed.

  “Everybody seems to know Mama,” Bertilla answered. “She is very beautiful, is she not?”

  “Very!” Lord Saire agreed.

  Lady Alvinston was one of the beauties he had described to d’Arcy Charington as being like the Goddesses sitting on Mount Olympus.

  She was dark, imperious and very much admired by the Prince of Wales and all those who copied his taste in beauties, but Lord Saire was surprised to find that she had a daughter.

  Sir George Alvinston had, he knew, conveniently died several years ago, leaving his wife, one of the undisputed beauties of Society, with a vast host of admirers.

  But no one had ever heard a whisper, so far as Lord Saire could remember, that there were any children of the marriage.

  In fact no one had suspected that Lady Alvinston was old enough to have a daughter of Bertilla’s age.

  Because he was curious, he asked,

  “You are returning home from school?”

  “I have left school.”

  “Does that please you?”

  “It has been embarrassing to stay there for so long. I was much older than all the other girls.”

  “How much older?” he enquired.

  She turned her face a little way from him, as if she was shy, before she answered,

  “I am eighteen and a half.”

  Lord Saire raised his eyebrows.

  He was well aware that it was usual for girls in Society to make their debut soon after they were seventeen and certainly before they were a year older.

  “I suppose your mother knows you are arriving?” he asked.

  “I wrote and told her,” Bertilla answered, “but sometimes Mama is so busy that she does not open my letters.”

  There was something pathetic and rather lost in her voice that told Lord Saire a great deal about the relationship between the beautiful Lady Alvinston and her daughter Bertilla.

  “You tell me you don’t usually come to London for the holidays?”

  “No, I have spent most of them with my aunt in Bath. But she died three months ago, so I cannot go there.”

  “Well, I expect you will enjoy London, even though very many people will be going away for Christmas.”

  “Perhaps we will go to the country,” Bertilla said, a sudden lilt in her voice. “It used to be such fun when Papa was alive. I could ride and in the winter he would take me hunting, but Mama has never liked the country, she prefers to live in London.”

  “You will be able to ride in Hyde Park”

  “Oh, I hope so,” Bertilla answered. “Although it would not be as wonderful as having fields to gallop over and feeling free.”

  There was something in her voice that made Lord Saire look at her more closely.

  He realised that, while her mother was an outstanding beauty, Bertilla had a quiet loveliness, which was very different.

/>   She was small for one thing, while it was fashionable to be tall and voluptuous.

  In fact her slim figure was immature and her face had something child-like about it.

  Her eyes were grey and unusually large in a face, which Lord Saire as a connoisseur of women, described to himself as ‘heart-shaped’.

  From what he could see of her hair under the unfashionable bonnet, it was very fair and curled round her forehead naturally.

  Surprisingly, her eyelashes were dark and he thought that the expression in her eyes as she looked up at him was very young and trusting.

  He could not help thinking that had he been with an older woman, she would, because they were alone in the brougham, by this time be flirting with him.

  She would not only flirt with every word she said but with her eyes, her lips and every movement of her body.

  But Bertilla was completely natural and was treating him as if it did not cross her mind for one moment that he was a man.

  “You are not in school uniform,” he observed after a moment.

  To his surprise, she blushed.

  “I grew – out of it a year ago,” she said after a moment. “Mama said it was not worth spending any more money– so my aunt bought in Bath what I am wearing now.”

  Her gown and jacket, in a sensible blue wool material with an almost indiscernible bustle, were just the sort of garments, Lord Saire thought, that an elderly aunt would choose.

  While they did nothing to enhance Bertilla’s appearance, they made her seem somewhat pathetic or perhaps that impression, he decided, came from her wide eyes and her face, which was still pale after the shock of being knocked down.

  “Is your foot still hurting you?” he asked.

  “No, it’s much better, thank you. It is so very kind of you to bring me home in your carriage, sir. Your horses are magnificent.”

  “I am very proud of my stable.”

  “And you don’t use a bearing rein?”

  She looked at him anxiously as she spoke, as if she thought he might contradict her,

  “Certainly not!”

  She gave a little sigh.

  “I am so glad. I think it’s cruel. Mama says it shows off the horses and they should show off their owner.”

  Lord Saire was well aware that fashionable ladies insisted on bearing reins, which arched their horses’ necks, but could, if adjusted too tightly, be extremely painful for an animal after being used for an hour or so.

  It was a cruelty that he abominated even though he knew that he was very much in the minority in London where the Nobility competed with one another in the smartness and luxury of their carriages.

  “Do you ride in Hyde Park?” Bertilla asked.

  “Most mornings when I am in London,” Lord Saire said, “but I am afraid we shall not meet, as I am going away.”

  “I was not thinking that,” Bertilla said quickly. “I was just wondering if you knew in which part of the Park one could get away from the fashionable riders and perhaps gallop.”

  Lord Saire, who had thought for a moment that Bertilla was seeking to meet him again, felt amused by the knowledge that such an idea had obviously never crossed her mind.

  “It is not considered ‘done’ to gallop in the Park,” he answered. “In fact to do so in Rotten Row is decidedly a social faux pas. However, if you cross the bridge over the Serpentine no one will see you.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” she replied. “That is just what I wanted to know. But, of course, Mama may not let me ride.”

  Lord Saire realised that such a restriction would undoubtedly be very depressing and he said comfortingly,

  “I am sure she will. If I remember rightly, Lady Alvinston looks very well on a horse.”

  “Mama looks beautiful whatever she does,” Bertilla said with what was an obvious note of admiration in her voice, “but sometimes she finds it a bore to ride and then Papa and I would go alone.”

  Lord Saire had the unmistakable feeling that this had been far more fun and he asked in a kinder tone,

  “You miss your father?”

  “He was always glad to see me,” Bertilla said, “and he wanted me to be with him.”

  The inference was obvious and Lord Saire was wondering what he could reply when he realised that his horses were drawing up outside 92 Park Lane.

  “I have brought you home,” he smiled, “and I hope that your mother will be pleased to see you.”

  “I hope so too,” Bertilla sighed. “Thank you very much for being so kind.”

  As a footman opened the door she added,

  “I told you my name, but I never learnt yours, sir. I would like to write and thank you.”

  “There is no need to do that,” Lord Saire answered, “but my name is Saire – Theydon Saire!”

  He climbed out of the carriage as he spoke and helped Bertilla to alight.

  It was a little difficult because it hurt her to stand on the leg she had injured. As the door of 92 Park Lane opened, she put out her hand.

  “Thank you again,” she said. “I am so very very – grateful.”

  “It has been a pleasure” Lord Saire replied, raising his hat.

  He saw Bertilla move in through the front door and then he got back into his carriage.

  As the horses drove away he wondered what sort of reception the girl would receive from her beautiful mother.

  He felt, somehow, that since she had not been met at the station there would be no welcome for her at 92 Park Lane.

  *

  In the hall, Bertilla smiled at the old butler whom she had known since childhood.

  “How are you, Maidstone?” she asked.

  “Glad to see you, Miss Bertilla, but you’re not expected.”

  “Not expected?” Bertilla cried. “Then Mama could not have received my letter. She must know that schools break up for the Christmas holidays and, of course, I could not go to Aunt Margaret’s.”

  “No, of course not, miss, but I’ve a feeling her Ladyship didn’t get your letter. She said nothing to us.”

  “Oh, dear!” Bertilla cried. “Then I had better go up and see her. She is awake?”

  She knew her mother seldom rose before luncheon and it was in fact only just after twelve o’clock.

  “Her Ladyship was called an hour ago, Miss Bertilla, but she will be surprised to see you.”

  There was a warning note in Maidstone’s voice that Bertilla recognised and her eyes were apprehensive as she walked slowly up the stairs.

  The house had had a great deal done to it, she thought, since she was last here in her father‘s time.

  The carpet was new, the walls had been redecorated, and there were great vases of hothouse flowers in the hall and on the landing, an extravagance her father would have deprecated.

  As she passed the doors of the double drawing room and climbed to the second floor, Bertilla’s feet seemed to move more slowly and her injured foot hurt her more with every step she took.

  She was also aware that her heart was beating quickly and she told herself that it was stupid to be so frightened of her mother, but then she always had been.

  She knew too that her hand was trembling as she raised it to knock on the bedroom door and she wished that she were back at school with tomorrow just another day of lessons.

  “Come in!” Lady Alvinston voice was sharp.

  Bertilla opened the door slowly.

  As she had expected, her mother was sitting up in bed against a pile of lace-edged pillows. An ermine rug covered her and she was wearing a confection of pink chiffon and lace that was a perfect foil for her dark hair and white skin.

  She was reading a letter and there was a pile of other letters on the bed beside her. As Bertilla came into the room, she finished the page she was reading before she looked up.

  When she saw who stood there, Lady Alvinston gave a little start before she said with an unmistakable note of irritation in her voice,

  “Oh, it’s you. I thought you were arriving
tomorrow.”

  “No, today, Mama. I did tell you in my letter.”

  “I mislaid it somewhere. I have such a lot to do.”

  “Yes, of course, Mama.”

  Bertilla drew nearer to the bed and Lady Alvinston asked,

  “Why are you limping?”

  “I was knocked down on the platform,” Bertilla replied. “It was stupid of me. I did not notice a truck coming behind me with a load of luggage.”

  “It’s just like you to be so careless!” Lady Alvinston retorted. “I hope you did not make a scene?”

  “No, of course not, Mama. A very kind gentleman picked me up and brought me home in his brougham.”

  “A gentleman?” Lady Alvinston‘s voice was shrill,

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He said his name was Saire – Theydon Saire.”

  “Lord Saire! Good Heavens! How could I imagine that you would come in contact with him?”

  There was no mistaking the anger in Lady Alvinston’s eyes and Bertilla said quickly,

  “I am sorry, Mama, I could not help it, I was stranded at the station and you had not sent a carriage for me.”

  “I have told you, I thought you were coming tomorrow. It is extremely unfortunate that you should have met Lord Saire.”

  “Why?”

  Lady Alvinston turned her head to look at her daughter and her eyes rested on the childlike face, the fair hair under the dull unfashionable bonnet surmounting it.

  “Did you tell him who you were?”

  “He asked my name and said that he knew you.”

  “Damn!”

  The harsh swear word seemed to ring out and Bertilla’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  “Mama!” she exclaimed involuntarily.

  “It is enough to make anyone swear,” Lady Alvinston retorted. “Could you not have realised, you little fool, that I did not want anyone, especially Lord Saire, to know that I had a daughter?”

  Bertilla did not speak and Lady Alvinston went on,

  “He will tell Gertrude Lindley and she will be delighted to tell the whole world She has always been jealous of me.”

  “I am sorry, Mama. I did not know you had no wish to own me.”

  “For goodness’ sake!” Lady Alvinston exclaimed. “You must have the sense to know that I cannot acknowledge I am the mother of an eighteen-year-old daughter. I admit to thirty, if anyone is so ill-mannered as to ask me my age, but I don’t intend to be any older.”