A Clandestine Courtship (22 page)

She relaxed. And this explained Justin’s presence. Edwin must have spoken with him earlier. She suppressed the stab of pain over being excluded from the discussion. Family decisions were no longer her responsibility.

“Harry has offered for me,” said Amelia without warning.

This news wasn’t so welcome, and her pain was far worse. Why hadn’t Justin at least sought her opinion? He knew almost nothing about the girls’ suitors. But she no longer had any authority over the Northrups. And this validated her decision to move far away from Northfield, so she would escape these reminders in the future. She forced her lips into a smile.

“I love her,” Harry admitted, meeting her gaze.

“Then I must trust you to treat her well.”

“I will.” He must have read her doubts, for he continued, “In time, you will believe it.”

Justin handed her a glass of wine, repeating his toast. She waited until Justin and Harry were engrossed in conversation before drawing Amelia aside.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” she asked softly. “Harry seems a good man, but his reputation is not what I had hoped for.”

“Half the young men in London are known as libertines,” she said calmly. “Most settle into marriage. He swears it was no more than sowing wild oats, and he considers fidelity important. I spoke to Justin about that yesterday. He has known many men in his years in the army and confirmed that most engage in affairs in their youth. In his experience, those who conduct liaisons with married women have little respect for vows, but those who eschew matrons are likely to remain faithful. For all Harry’s wildness, I have heard no tales linking him with married ladies.”

“Perhaps he will make you happy, then,” she admitted grudgingly, though the fact that Justin considered him just like other men appalled her. Only a very few men were different enough to trust. Her father had been one, and she suspected Edwin was another. But she could not argue further. “Think about it. If you discover anything that makes you uncomfortable, call off the betrothal. I do not trust men who have been tempered in London excesses. Town bronze is merely a polite term for unbridled debauchery. Look what it did to Frederick.”

“London did not lead Frederick astray, Mary,” said Amelia. “Even Lord Ridgeway was not responsible. Frederick was cruel long before he set foot in the city. He was already a wastrel who preyed on the weak when Ridgeway befriended him. It was not a case of a master corrupting his pupil, but a meeting of kindred spirits.”

Amelia had voiced this sentiment before, but Mary had never listened. Believing it was tantamount to admitting that her father had sold her to a dissipated profligate. It was more comfortable to curse John for destroying a weak-willed boy, though she must then accept some of the blame herself, for John would not have cared about Frederick if not for her. And Frederick would not have been vulnerable to John’s evil if not for her.

Are you sure about that?

She frowned. If her understanding of men was deficient, then she might be making new mistakes. She could not chance alienating Amelia because she had judged Harry wrong.

So what was the truth? Had her father understood Frederick’s nature?

Vicar Layton had taken pride in knowing every resident of his parish, and he had been an astute judge of character. If he had knowingly contracted his only daughter to a lecherous wastrel, then he must have believed that she was a fallen woman.

No, claimed the voice. You are missing something.

Shaking off the pain, she reviewed the events of that autumn.

Her father had known he was dying, though he had not yet informed his children. Had illness affected his judgment? Frederick had been away at school for several years, so his peccadilloes might have been unknown outside the family – and to be honest, she had heard nothing against him. A father desperate to secure his daughter’s future might have convinced himself that all would be well, despite the groom’s tender years.

And Frederick
had
been young. They had wed when he was barely eighteen. Gentlemen rarely considered setting up their nurseries so soon. But impending death might have pushed her father into accepting an alliance he would otherwise have eschewed. Mary had already been twenty, and she had no dowry. Howard had been a university student with no prospects until he secured his own living. Where would she have gone once her father died? She could not have stayed at the vicarage.

But he’d had doubts, she realized, remembering their talk on the eve of her wedding. He had stressed Frederick’s youth and volatility, warning her that it would take time before he would grow into a steady companion. He had reminded her not to chastise him or question his decisions. Taking her place in society would require patience, for her bloodlines had been diluted through several generations. The other aristocratic wives would be watching her. And on and on.

She had listened with barely half an ear, and had completely missed his points. Because she was older, she had treated Frederick more as a young brother or son than as a husband – just as she had treated Justin, Amelia, and Caroline. And she had been so accustomed to running the vicarage that she had immediately taken charge of the Manor, changing routines without regard to tradition or custom.

Her manner may have been high-handed, but she had also been quick to accept blame for every problem – if she had satisfied him, he would not have left for London; if she had deferred to his judgment, even when he was wrong, he would have taken charge of Northfield and learned to run it; if his home had not become a battleground, he would have accepted her.

But her guilt hadn’t stopped there. She had honestly believed that her willfulness had forced him away, leading to every one of his subsequent problems – falling in with bad companions, indulging in all the vices that tempted green young men, squandering his inheritance, whiling away his life like the other wastrels that littered the city. Even John’s friendship had been her fault. John only took the youngster under his experienced wing to punish her.

The guilt had suffocated her, fueling the feelings of inadequacy she had suffered since childhood. Her mother had endured a long illness before her death, becoming querulous and finding fault with every effort to attend her. Once she was gone, Mary had assumed her place at the vicarage, but her efforts had never been good enough, a fact her father had pointed out often.

Of course you could not replace your mother, scoffed the voice. You were ten years old!

Which was true, she admitted. She had been held up to an impossible standard. No wonder she had felt unworthy.

And the gossip had aggravated that image. As had the gentlemen. First George had abandoned her. Then James. And finally Frederick. Only John had stayed, but he had used every incident to feed the gossip, raising new doubts in her mind and pouring on the guilt. It was all her fault.

No!
No more. She was not responsible for any of it. She was innocent of ruining Frederick. His failings were rooted in his childhood. Perhaps he had hidden his true character when he had approached her father to ask for her hand. The previous baron’s death had been unexpected – an accident while hunting with friends – so his sudden desire to wed had seemed reasonable. He had needed someone responsible enough to raise his young siblings, and marriage would free him from his guardian.

Now that she thought about it, he had chosen her solely on those grounds. Providing an heir had never been mentioned. Nor had helping him with the estate.

So in his usual fashion, he had solved the immediate problems as quickly as possible, with no thought to the ultimate consequences. Like other young men, he had had no interest in a wife. He had probably not even heard the rumors about her. He had believed that a vicar’s daughter of advancing years would make an adequate substitute mother. All he wanted was to rid himself of responsibility and escape to London to resume the life his father’s death had interrupted.

So she had had nothing to do with his defection. Her actions had been no better or worse than anyone else’s. She was not perfect, but neither was she a pariah. She need look no further than Caro and Amelia for proof that she had accomplished something worthwhile.

The guilt slipped from her shoulders, first in a trickle, then a rush. She was free. Her head felt light for the first time in years. She wanted to laugh, to dance, to run.

She was free.

Amelia was chuckling over one of Harry’s stories. She had never looked happier. Would it stay like that?

She hoped so.

The girls would have better marriages than she had experienced. Each had found someone who cared for her. Neither felt pressured to wed out of duty or honor or any of the other reasons people committed matrimony.

Which meant that her own duty was nearly done, the duty for which marriage had contracted her. Once the weddings were over, she would be free of the last shackle.

The jointure Justin had reinstated would more than cover that cottage. A place that was hers alone, that could never be taken from her, where no one could intrude without her permission. It had been her ultimate dream. Security. Peace. Belonging. Only one cloud intruded.

James.

He was not a man to give up without a fight. Even the gulf between their respective positions would not deter him if he was determined to win. So she must convince him that he did not want to pursue this particular war.

CHAPTER TWELVE

James set aside an account book as his friends entered the library. “Are congratulations in order?”

Harry’s grin nearly split his face. “They are indeed.”

Edwin’s smile was dreamier. “You left early.”

“Business.”

Harry snorted. “If business was that urgent, why did you go with us?”

“Lady Northrup suggested a new approach. The books contain notes on staff discipline. I’m compiling a list of specific grievances people had against John.”

“This obsession is getting out of hand,” observed Harry, shaking his head. “You are worse than Edwin and his Romans.”

“But not as bad as you and your conquests,” protested Edwin, laughing. “What will you talk about now that you have given up wenching?”

“Homer,” he said instantly, striking a pose of learned pomposity. “The intricacies of the
Odyssey
, the drama of the
Iliad
, the ineptitude of the translators that forces me to slave for months – nay, years – composing my own editions.”

“That will certainly endear you to society’s hen-witted hostesses,” said James with a grin.

“Fashion,” decided Harry, adopting the demeanor of a fastidious dandy and twisting his voice into a bored drawl. “The intricacies of the cravat, the drama of choosing the best color and cut of a jacket, the ineptitude of clothiers that forces me to slave for hours – nay, days – finding the perfect thumbs and fingers to make an acceptable pair of gloves.” He peered suspiciously at his hands.

“Brummell beat you to that complaint,” pointed out Edwin.

“And bores us into a stupor with his endless repetitions of it,” added James.

“Are you suggesting I avoid the trite? But society prefers the trite. It does not tax even the simplest mind.”

“Surely, you are not implying that Lady Beatrice is simple-minded,” said Edwin, pretending absolute shock.

“Never!” Harry glanced behind him with a theatrical shudder. “Sharp as a tack, that lady. And she’ll crucify you for thinking otherwise, even in jest. I swear she can hear us even as we speak.”

“So what
will
you talk about,” asked James.

“We will remain on my estate much of the year. Amelia has interesting ideas about improving it. And when I am in London, I will bore everyone by rhapsodizing on the joys of the married state. Or with politics. My father’s last letter hinted that he might give me that seat in Commons after all.”

“Hardly boring. You should consider marriage for yourself, James.” Edwin grinned.

“Later.”

“Why not court Mary?” Harry’s prodding remained lighthearted, but a serious note crept into his teasing. “It would hardly interfere with your investigation since she is helping you with it.”

“What did I do to deserve this?” James asked, half to himself. “A man steps into parson’s mousetrap and immediately demands that all his friends join him. You sound like Lady Hardesty,” he added, naming one of London’s ubiquitous matchmakers.

“Harry has a point,” put in Edwin lightly. “I’ve seen the way you look at her – and how she looks at you, for that matter.”

“Can you honestly swear you’re not thinking about it?” demanded Harry, prodding harder.

“No.”

“Well, then—”

“It’s not that simple.” His tone wiped the grins from their faces. “Lady Northrup has suffered greatly at men’s hands – or so I suspect. She has no interest in tying herself to another one.”

“I thought Amelia was being coy when she mentioned Mary’s plans to leave,” said Harry. “In fact, I assumed that she wanted me to push you a little.”

“Not at all.”

“Perhaps Caro can suggest something that will help,” said Edwin.

“No!”

Both men jumped.

“Stay out of it. And keep the ladies out of it. No prodding; no questions, even innocent ones. She’s skittish enough to bolt if she feels threatened, and I truly need her help to find John’s killer.”

Edwin exchanged glances with Harry, then shrugged. “If that is what you want.”

“Absolutely.”

“How is the investigation proceeding?” asked Harry.

“The more I learn, the more confusing it gets. But I am convinced that Frederick was somehow connected. Within hours of arriving at Ridgeway, John received a note that lured him to his death. So the motive must be rooted in his previous trip home – which he cut short, fleeing the moment Frederick died. He did not even stay for the funeral.”

“I know little of Frederick, but I can ask Amelia about him,” said Harry with a shrug. “Or would that bother Mary?”

“She knows I am investigating his death. She has questions about him, too, but she cannot find answers – just as I have trouble learning the truth about John.”