“The young person who called earlier is outside in the square. I can see her lurking by the garden railings. Should I call the constables?”
“Do you mean Miss Vivianna Greentree?”
“Correct, my lord.”
Oliver frowned at his own reflection. Here was a complication he had not expected. Miss Greentree from Yorkshire, come to ring a peal over him.
“My lord? Shall it be the constables?”
Oliver picked up his ebony-handled cane. “Efficient as the members of Sir Robert Peel’s Metropolitan Police Force are, Hodge, I do not think they are required just yet. Let her be. If she tries to follow me, she will find she has bitten off more than she can chew. Send the carriage around. I am ready.”
Hodge bowed and went to do his bidding, while Oliver followed at a more leisurely pace. Miss Greentree might be an unexpected complication, but he did not think she was a particularl
y dangerous one. In fact, her presence in London might well enhance his wicked reputation even more. Time would tell what part Miss Vivianna Greentree from Yorkshire had to play in this story.
Miss Vivianna Greentree stood outside the tall, elegant London house, its windows ablaze with light, and felt very small. Beneath the thin soles of her leather half-boots she could feel every bump in the square, and the cold crisp air made her shiver despite her sensible wool gown and her warm cloak with its fur-trimmed collar.
Impotent anger stirred inside her, a dark, smothering sense of frustration that had been building since she left the Greentree estate all those days ago in response to a frantic letter from the Beatty sisters concerning the fate of the Shelter for Poor Orphans.
Before her, on the west side of Berkeley Square, the elegant Queen Anne home of Lord Montegomery rose up like an accusation. The Montegomerys were an old, proud, and aristocratic family, and Oliver was the last of them. What would a gentleman of his privileged background know of poverty and abandonment? Vivianna’s fingers tightened upon the riding crop she held in one hand—protection, in case she needed to go into streets that were less than suitable for a woman of her class and refinement.
Vivianna had already been up to Lord Montegomery’s door to ask that he speak with her on a matter of urgency. The supercilious-looking butler who answered her brisk use of the knocker had informed her that Lord Montegomery was about to go out to his club, and besides, he did not allow unaccompanied female persons into his dwelling.
As if, Vivianna thought furiously, it was her reputation in doubt rather than his!
Again her gloved fingers tightened upon the riding crop. Well, he would soon realize that Miss Vivianna Greentree from Yorkshire was not so easily thrown off the scent. She was determined that the Shelter for Poor Orphans would not close down because of one selfish gentleman.
A rattle of wheels and clatter of hooves heralded the approach of a carriage from the far end of the square. It drew to a halt outside Montegomery’s house. His lordship, it appeared, was preparing to go out to his club just as his butler had said.
This was the moment Vivianna had been waiting for. Even she, country bumpkin that she was, knew that fashionable London gentlemen were wont to go out in the evening. And from what she had learned of Lord Montegomery, he was a very fashionable gentleman indeed.
Quickly, she moved into the shadows by the iron railings that protected the garden and the plane trees in the middle of the square. One of the passengers on the mail coach, with whom she had shared the long journey south, had been very informative when it came to London gentlemen of Lord Montegomery’s ilk, and with an eye to the future, Vivianna had encouraged him to talk of such creatures in general.
“Gaming and drinking clubs, night houses, and disorderly women! My goodness, miss, you mind yourself in London, a sweet innocent little thing like yourself.”
Vivianna did not consider herself “sweet,” and although she was “innocent” in the physical sense, she was very well read and informed. Nor did she believe herself to be in any danger from Montegomery. A man like that would prefer all the superficial womanly virtues—sweet and biddable, and certainly beautiful, in a wan and helpless sort of way. Vivianna knew herself to be none of these things; certainly she was not beautiful in the current fashion. To be like Queen Victoria was now the aim of every girl—short and pretty and plump.
Vivianna’s eyes were large and hazel, and her hair was chestnut, thick and glossy when she allowed it its freedom. She was tall and buxom—Junoesque—with a voice both clear and precise. And she had a way of looking at men that tended to make them squirm nervously. A gentleman of her acquaintance had once said of her that when she turned her gaze upon him, he felt as if she were making judgment, and that in summing up she had found him lacking.
No, Vivianna thought, she was in no danger from a known rake and scoundrel—she was well able to protect herself—and she doubted she would need the riding crop to drive him off. Her aim was to confront Montegomery, make her appeal to him, and persuade him to her point of view.
And Vivianna knew she could be very persuasive indeed.
The front door had opened. She could see the gleam of mirrors and marble within, and the bright splash of flowers. No doubt Lord Montegomery’s house was very beautiful, and Vivianna admired beauty, but she did not envy him. Her mother came from a family, the Tremaines, who had made their money by “trade”—Lady Greentree’s grandfather had been a seller of meats. The Tremaines were not at all blue-blooded, and Vivianna’s mother had gained her title from her husband, Sir Edward Greentree. She had also gained a beautiful, if isolated, home in Yorkshire and, more importantly, a family who loved her.
Surely that was the point, wasn’t it? That everyone should have someone to love them? Even a man like Lord Montegomery would understand an appeal put to him in those terms.
Wouldn’t he?
Suddenly there he was, the gentleman himself: Lord Montegomery. Vivianna’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward to see him better.
Obligingly, he paused a moment on the doorstep, the light falling upon him. He was tall, with broad shoulders shown to best advantage by his well-made coat, and a lithe, physically fit body. He swung a cane in one hand and held his top hat in the other, as he turned his head toward the approaching vehicle. His hair was dark and glossy, combed back at the front and longer, curling over his high white collar, at the back. He glanced nonchalantly in her direction, seemingly enjoying the clear, crisp evening air, and Vivianna was presented with a face that was angular—a straight nose and high cheekbones with dark side-whiskers and a square jaw—and handsome. And yet more than that. There were plenty of handsome men in London. This man, for all his fine clothes, looked like a pirate. Someone of whom to beware.
A shiver of awareness made her draw her cloak closer about her.
Had she really expected him to be a kindly old gentleman? Besides, Vivianna told herself, she had faced more hopeless tasks in her twenty years. Persuading a rich and selfish gentleman to change his mind, to do some good for others less fortunate, should be a simple matter. She had no reason to be afraid of him—for surely it was fear that had brought that heaviness to her chest, and anxiety that made her skin tingle and her breath quicken?
With another shiver, Vivianna moved closer to the garden railings.