Page 8 of The Book of Lost Stories

Villainous Appearances

The dank stone chamber had the chilliness of the tomb about it, while beneath the window the sea threw itself with stupefying violence at the base of the tower, as if trying to dash it down and consume it entirely. She could admire such a spectacle, but not draw comfort from it.

The Travails of Lady Malvina by ORLANDO brOWNE

The next day at breakfast they made the acquaintance of Mr Pullen, an elderly gentleman who had come to Harrogate to treat his gout, bringing his granddaughter Nell, the fair girl whom Alys had noticed at dinner the previous night, to keep him company.

Mr Pullen knew Sir Ralph and seemed quite unaffected by the style and manners of the lady he had married, although Alys suspected that the circumstance of his being a trifle deaf meant that he missed some of her aunt’s more vulgar utterances.

The two girls immediately struck up a friendship, even though their situations could not have been more different.

Nell was her grandfather’s heiress and would have a London season when she turned eighteen, while Alys was destined never to be out at all, unless this brief sojourn counted as her debut.

But they soon discovered that they shared a taste for Gothic romances, and Alys confided in Nell her ambition to complete one of her own.

The days quickly fell into an agreeable pattern, consisting of morning visits to take the water at the Sulphur Well in Low Harrogate, promenading the Assembly Rooms or the gardens, and visiting the shops and libraries.

As well as the Pullens, they made several new acquaintances and soon felt quite at home there, something Alys would have thought quite impossible when she first arrived.

Only one cloud marred her enjoyment of this idyll when, on their fourth visit to the Assembly Rooms, she had the misfortune to catch the eye of the new Lord Rayven.

Attired in one of the demure but modish white muslin gowns fashioned by Miss Grimshaw’s clever hands, her large grey eyes sparkling and the green ribbon threaded through her curls setting off their chestnut hue to perfection, she was promenading the room with Lady Basset.

Her aunt’s headdress of purple and orange ostrich feathers and the exceedingly low décolletage of her over-trimmed gown, in combination with the flushed cheeks and slightly unsteady gait of someone who had partaken rather too liberally of the brandy before setting out, might have singled her out for comment in less mixed company.

Here, however, Alys was happy to note several even greater quizzes of both sexes, including one elderly man wearing rouge, a powdered wig and a spangled coat.

The musicians were striking up for a country dance at one end of the room, where Nell, squired by a portly general who had taken a fancy to her, was taking her place in the set. Alys did not envy her: it was already hot and would grow more so later as the room filled.

Looking with interest at the assembled throng, many of whom were by now familiar to her, her eyes fell upon the tall figure of a man: indeed, he was of such a height that once her eyes were turned in that direction it would have been hard to miss him.

Why, it is Raymundo Ravegnac, to the life! Was her first astonished thought, for he had the black hair, sallow complexion and hawk-nosed face of her villain, although marred by a scar running down one cheek … and a very sardonic expression in his dark eyes when he caught her staring.

Alys blushed and looked away instantly, but consigning that interesting scar to memory as a useful addition to Raymundo’s appearance.

She was determined not to turn in his direction again, but was severely discomfited when, only a few minutes later, he had himself been introduced to them by the Master of Ceremonies.

After one startled, fleeting glance, Alys merely curtsied, eyes averted, but Lady Basset exclaimed in delight, ‘Lord Rayven? Lud, to think that we should meet you, when it was only a few days ago that we were being shown around Priory Chase by your housekeeper!’

He muttered something under his breath that Alys did not quite understand, then said with the strangest emphasis, ‘Indeed? I am sorry I was not then at home, Lady Basset,’ as if he was incredulous that she should be entitled to call herself any such thing, and when Alys saw the vulgar and flirtatious way her aunt behaved in his presence, she could hardly be surprised.

‘As to that, my lord,’ Lady Basset said, simpering and pretending to hide her blushes behind her fan, ‘I am sure I would not have ventured to force myself on you, had you been at home.’

‘No force would have been required to meet two such delightful visitors, I assure you,’ Lord Rayven replied imperturbably.

Lady Basset continued in this vein until Alys was ready to sink from mortification, especially since she knew she had brought this ordeal on to her own head by catching his lordship’s attention in the first place.

She kept her eyes downcast and refused to be drawn into the conversation, such as it was, until Lord Rayven happened to mention that he had been advised to apply the waters of the Sulphur Well to a sabre cut on his arm, which was not healing as fast as it might.

‘You would be better advised to pack it with cobwebs, for that is a sovereign way to promote a clean and healthy wound and fast healing. I have never known it fail,’ she said decidedly, unable to resist giving her advice.

He turned to her, eyebrows raised, as if amazed to hear that she could speak at all, let alone with such directness. ‘Perhaps, Miss Basset—’

‘Weston. I am Miss Weston ,’ Alys interrupted. ‘Lady Basset is … is my aunt. By marriage.’

‘Miss Weston, I would gladly take your advice, but where would I obtain such a large supply of cobwebs?’

‘The further reaches of your own cellars should provide a more than adequate number. My gown was quite covered in them when I came out.’

‘You explored my cellars ?’

‘Indeed I did, and they are quite delightful,’ Alys replied, her face rapt and her expressive eyes growing luminous with the memory. ‘I am sure I have never enjoyed anything half so much in my life.’

He stared down at her, as if puzzled. ‘Extraordinary,’ he muttered, before Lady Basset again claimed his attention.

Her conversation became so increasingly vulgar that Alys began to wish she had disclaimed any relationship with Lady Basset, but to her infinite relief, after a few more moments he bowed and walked off.

Alys gazed after him absently, thinking that he still looked very much the soldier he had been until so recently.

There was something about the proud way he held himself and the rather military cut of the coat across his broad shoulders …

As if he felt her regard he suddenly turned his head and favoured her with a brooding, half-frowning glance, his dark blue eyes holding hers, until her heart began to pound so much that she felt dizzy.

Then he turned on his heel and strode off, leaving Alys wishing for the second time that the ground would open up and swallow her.

Lady Basset, observing this exchange, teased her on making a conquest and could talk of nothing else but his asking to be introduced to them.

‘Oh, no, I am sure he was merely piqued by my rudeness in staring at him,’ Alys said, fervently hoping that this would be the end of the acquaintance.

He looked to be several years her senior and was immeasurably above her in rank and wealth: what interest could he have in a callow miss, with no fortune, connections or even beauty?

‘And Papa most expressly warned me against having anything to do with Lord Rayven, so should news reach him of this encounter, he will be extremely angry.’

‘Oh, pooh!’ Lady Basset said airily. ‘Major Weston has no power to dictate to whom I may speak, and so I will tell him.’

‘Well, I dare say we will not see Lord Rayven again, and there will be an end of the matter,’ Alys said hopefully.

‘Why? Did you not think him a fine figure of a man? You are very hard to please. He is not precisely handsome, perhaps, but very striking and of a commanding presence. I only wish I might have seen him in uniform, for I am sure I would have been in ecstasies of admiration.’

Alys could only be deeply grateful that her aunt had not.

*

When the two girls were standing together later, sipping lemonade and fanning themselves, Alys described the encounter, especially the amazing coincidence of Lord Rayven’s resembling her villain to a quite extraordinary degree.

‘Except that I have given my villain brown eyes, but perhaps it would be less commonplace to change them to dark blue, like his? And Lord Rayven has a scar across his cheek that would make an interestingly sinister addition, too.’

Nell agreed. ‘He was pointed out to me yesterday when we were coming away from the library and he does indeed look just the part. He’s so tall and forbidding that it would put me in a quake to speak to him. Neither does he sound in the least agreeable.’

‘Agreeable? No, he was certainly not that . I did not like his manner in the least, and his singling me out in such a way has made my aunt quiz me on the subject until I could scream. But I do not suppose I will ever see him again, or if I do, that he will favour me with more than a common bow in passing, so she will very soon forget all about him.’

‘It is a pity Lord Rayven did not turn out to be that divinely fair young man we saw the other day, getting into a post-chaise,’ Nell giggled. ‘Such a profile! And I wish my hair was as golden.’

‘He was a veritable Adonis. I may have him for Malvina’s betrothed, Alfonz, for if the villain is dark, the hero should be angelically fair.’

Nell looked at her admiringly. ‘You are so much cleverer than I, Alys. Pray, will you read me a little more of your novel after dinner? I swear I did not sleep for hours last night, imagining that a ghostly monk was standing over my bed!’

‘Be grateful that my intention is marriage,’ said Raymundo Ravegnac.

‘But I am betrothed to Alfonz Montroth. He will seek my release!’

He uttered a bark of laughter that chilled Malvina to the bone. ‘Do not look for rescue there! Who do you think it was who betrayed you into my hands? How came we to find your secret trysting place, if he did not lead us there?’

‘How indeed?’ Alys muttered as, seated at her little travelling desk, she wrote furiously into the night, both disturbed and inspired by her encounter with the sardonic and discomforting Lord Rayven.

When the candles began to gutter and she went to bed, it was to dream not of the golden youth she and Nell had so briefly glimpsed, but of a darker and more brooding presence.