A Lady of Persuasion (36 page)

Thank heaven. Toby would make everything better. Toby loved her. He would never let her come to harm. With him, she was safe.

As she put a hand to the door handle, it dimly registered in her mind that Toby was not just speaking, but shouting. Bellowing, really, as she’d never heard him raise his voice to anyone.

“You had clear instructions,” he thundered. “She was never to be a part of this.”

A milder tenor answered. Bel had to press her ear to the door to make out the words. Her conscience pricked her for eavesdropping, but how else was she to discern if it was safe to interrupt?

“Yes, but it wasn’t working,” the milder voice argued back. “You told me to be more severe, do my worst.”

“Your worst at me, not her,” Toby answered. “There’s no excuse for—”

“And didn’t you tell me you wanted to lose, at any cost?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then it had to be her. There’s nothing left to insinuate about you. That’s how I reasoned it, at least.”

A loud crack reverberated through the door, startling Bel. Her stomach plummeted with the weight of dread. Perhaps she should summon a footman.

Toby’s voice again. “Damn you, Hollyhurst, you’re not paid to reason. You’re paid to draw.”

Hollyhurst?
Was that vile man here, in Toby’s study?

Bel didn’t recall making the decision to open the door. The next thing she knew, she was standing in the center of the Aldridge crest stamped in gold on the blood-red carpet. The men stared at her; Toby from behind his desk, and—could this truly be
the
H. M. Hollyhurst, reclining in the chair opposite? He wasn’t at all the grizzled, pointy-eared troll she’d imagined him to be. He was barely older than she, Bel judged—smooth-faced and handsome.

Pale with shock, the young man rose to his feet. “Bollocks,” he muttered.

“Toby?” Bel’s voice shook. “What is going on?”

Toby knew precisely what was going on. This ill-fated day was gathering to its horrific climax.

The jig was up. This was the moment he’d been dreading ever since the day they married. And yet, there came with it an odd sense of relief.

“Isabel, may I introduce Mr. Hiram Hollyhurst?” The anemic twit bowed clumsily. Toby added with a pointed look, “He’s leaving.”

Hollyhurst was not so obtuse that he missed that hint. Isabel stood frozen in the center of the carpet, staring at Toby in disbelief for long moments after the door had been closed and they were alone.

“I—” Her jaw worked. “Toby, I don’t understand.”

Of course she didn’t, the sweet girl. She could never understand the motivations behind such callous behavior. It simply wasn’t in her to comprehend. “Will you sit down?” he asked.

“Thank you, no.” She clasped and unclasped her hands, as though unsure how to begin. “So that was Mr. Hollyhurst.”

It wasn’t a question. Which was fortunate, because Toby really did not want to answer. What he wanted to do was hold her. After all that had happened this morning, the news he had just received—how cruel, that he should destroy his marriage on this, the day he most needed the comfort of a wife.

“The
Mr. Hollyhurst,” she continued. “The same man who has vilified you in
The Prattler
all these months by drawing those horrid caricatures.”

“Yes,” he said finally. “We’re … friends.”

“Friends?” she cried. “But how can that be? However could you become friends with a man like that?”

“He’s the son of a former steward, and … and it’s not important how we met.” Toby paused.

“I’ve been paying him, Isabel. All those caricatures, the assaults on my character—they were all created at my behest.”

She made an inarticulate noise in her throat. Her eyes then slid toward the ceiling, as though some explanation for his behavior might be found in the scrolls of the brass chandelier. A silent

“why” formed on her pursed lips, but she seemed to lack the breath to dislodge it.

“Really, please sit down.” Toby moved toward her and laid a hand on her arm.

She shook it off. “Thank you, no.” Still, she could not form the question.

He sighed. He would not force her to ask. “It began last year, after Sophia disappeared and her parents spread the falsehood about her illness. It was winter, and people had little enough to talk about. The gossips would out the truth inevitably, I feared—unless I gave them something else to discuss. I came to London and tracked down Hollyhurst. Hiram and I devised this

‘Rake Reborn’ nonsense.”

Toby moved toward the bar. God, he needed a drink. “At first, I simply meant to deflect suspicion, absorb the brunt of the scandal,” he continued, pouring whiskey into a glass.

“Should Sophia miraculously return and still wish to marry me, her reputation would be intact.

Later, when it became clear she wasn’t returning … then I suppose it became a matter of pride.

I didn’t want anyone to know why she’d truly jilted me. Hell, even I didn’t know why she’d truly jilted me. Far preferable to let people suppose my dissolute behavior drove her to cry off.”

At last, Isabel found her voice. “But why continue it, even after we became engaged? After we married?”

Toby took a slow draught of whiskey, allowing her time to piece the reasons together. He knew she would. She was a clever girl.

When he lowered his glass, she was frowning down at her hands. See? Hadn’t taken her but seconds.

She said, “Mr. Hollyhurst mentioned a plan, to lose. Was he referring to the election?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been trying to lose?”

Toby felt like telling her it was more that he’d been trying not to win—but that would be mincing words. Anyway, it scarcely mattered, given the morning’s events. “Yes.”

“But the campaigning, the hustings—you’ve been going to Surrey every day.”

Toby shook his head slowly.

“Dear Lord. You haven’t?”

A look of revulsion formed on her face, and it nearly killed him to view it. But he wouldn’t allow himself to turn away.

“If you haven’t been going to Surrey,” she asked, “where have you been spending your days?

Not… Oh, heavens. Not at the Hidden Pearl?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Never there, nor anywhere like it. I went… different places. The park, the club. Much of the time, I was simply here in my study. I half-expected—half-hoped, I think

—you’d one day discover me, and the ruse would be over. But you’re always so occupied with your charitable efforts, your society meetings …” He shrugged. “You never noticed I was here.”

“Of course I didn’t notice you! Why would I go searching the house for my husband, when he’s supposedly off in Surrey? I believed in you. I trusted you. I thought you wanted this, as much as I did. Even before our wedding, from the first night we met, you—”

“Come now, Isabel. Be honest. You know I never truly wanted to run for MP.”

“Yes, but I thought you wanted me!” She brought a hand to her throat, as if astounded by the volume of her own anger. “Even if politics wasn’t your inclination, you knew I sought a husband with influence in Parliament. And before we were married, you promised to run. You
promised
me, Toby.”

“I promised you many things, darling. The promises came to me easily then, when I had no real intention of keeping them.” Toby took a deep breath and put down his glass. There was no going back now. Half-confessions served no purpose. It was time to lay the truth out before her, and let her do with it what she would.

“When we first became engaged,” he continued in an even tone, “I would have told you anything you wanted to hear—tales, fancies, lies. I simply had to make you mine, by any means.”

“But why?”

“Pride,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And some juvenile form of retribution. I wanted to take you from Gray the way he’d taken Sophia from me.”

“Sophia?” Her hand dropped from her throat to her stomach, and she looked as though she might be sick. “All this time, it was about her? You never wanted me.”

“No, that’s not true.” Toby rushed forward, catching her in his arms. She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly. “Isabel, I wanted you from the first, before I even learned your name.

And once I knew you for the intelligent, principled, passionate woman you are, I fell in love with you, body and soul. By the time we married, I wanted nothing more than to keep you happy. But by then I’d made you so many absurd promises, and you had this naïve, idealized impression of my character. At first, I wanted to earn that good opinion. I wanted to deserve you. And I thought maybe, if I just tried hard enough—”

“At first.” She refused to look at him, staring instead at his lapel. “At first, you wanted to earn my good opinion. But not anymore.”

“Because I can’t.” Toby’s mouth went dry. “I just don’t have it in me. To be truthful, I’m not sure any man would. Your expectations are so high. I knew I’d inevitably disappoint you—if it wasn’t by losing this election, it would be by losing the next, or by failing to gain the level of influence you desired … Sooner or later, I knew you’d learn the truth. I’m not the man you’d wish me to be.”

“But you
could
be that man. With a bit more time, if you only made the effort. You have so much potential. Such warmth, such compassion, a natural gift for—”

“Stop. Just stop.” Toby released her and raised a hand to his temple. “Don’t tell me what I could be, with just a bit of improvement. I’m not one of your blasted charity projects, I’m your husband. And you’re right, it’s not enough for me anymore, to earn your good opinion. I want your love, whether I deserve it or not.”

She choked back a sob. “You
lied
to me. The campaign, the opera, Mr. Hollyhurst… and now
this.”
Fumbling with the pursestring, she opened her reticule and withdrew a scrap of paper.

“Look at this. Just look at it.”

She waved the caricature under his nose. Toby didn’t need to look at it—the horrid image was burned into his memory.

Mimicking his voice, she continued, “‘Let me take you to the opera,’ you said. ‘Let me spoil you,’ you said. ‘If you want to be a lady of influence, you must appear beautiful, desirable, au courant.’ And look at me in this horrid drawing—depraved, disgusting, mad with lust. Who would listen to that woman, I ask you? What kind of influence can I have now?” She balled the paper in her hands and threw it at him. “You’ve made me a public joke. You’ve ruined everything. If you really loved me, how could you do this? You … you
liar!”

“Isabel—”

With an open palm, she buffeted his shoulder. “You told me you would never hurt me. You said you would die before you let me come to harm.” She hit him again. “You made me trust you, you …”

She unleashed a series of epithets in Spanish. From the tenor of them, Toby was glad he could not understand their meaning. She punctuated each insult with a blow to his shoulder.

“Isabel, please.”

“Bastardo!”
she cried, striking him again.

That one, he understood. And accepted as his due.

“Liar!” she cried again, pulling back her arm.

He caught her wrist before she could land another blow.
“Isabel.”

Breathing hard, she stared at her hand with disbelief. The anger in her eyes cooled to shock.

Finally she whispered, “I struck you.”

“Yes.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’ve never struck anyone in my life.”

“I wish I could tell you it didn’t hurt.”

Gentling his grip, he folded both her hands in his and held them tight. Almost the same way they’d stood as they’d recited holy vows. Together they paused there, just breathing. Holding disaster at bay for a few moments more. Her bottom lip trembled. It gutted him, that he didn’t feel he had the right to kiss it.

“I went to my aunt’s card party this morning,” she said quietly, staring at their hands. “The ladies there … they were all laughing at me, whispering about me in the corners. And then Sophia showed me that picture of me, crazed and disheveled. Just like my poor mother. No one listened to her, either. You can’t know how long I’ve worked, how hard I’ve tried to never be that woman.
This
woman.” Her voice cracked, and Toby’s heart cracked with it. “I wanted their respect, and they all laughed.”

“Darling, I’m sorry. So sorry. But every lady in England could laugh at you, and I would love you still. And I’d gladly endure the derision of the world, if you could feel the same for me.”

It was true. All his life, Toby had been happy to be every man’s friend. But it wasn’t enough anymore, to be that fellow everyone liked. He wanted to be the man one woman loved, beyond reason.

“Isabel, this is who I am. I’m a flawed, self-absorbed aristocrat of middling consequence. I enjoy my life, my friends, and my family. I like to have a good time, and I like to surround myself with nice things. Much as I admire your zeal for charity, I doubt I’ll ever match it. I have no interest in Parliament and accordingly little talent for politics. I am deeply, deeply sorry to have hurt you, but I’ll spend a lifetime making it right if only you’ll give me the opportunity.”