An Honest Heart (21 page)

And yet . . .

After foisting Edith off on another undeserving young man, Oliver slipped out of the gallery and made his way to the card room. As he suspected, Doncroft was well into his cups and had a large pile of coins on the table before him. He finished the hand, downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp, and scooped his winnings into his coin purse, which he stuffed into an inside pocket of his tailcoat.

“I am surprised to see you here,” Doncroft slurred. “I thought for certain Miss Buchanan would have you leg-shackled by now. I suppose Radclyffe is out wooing the delectable Miss Dorcas.”

“I do believe he was partnered with her for this set, yes. Shall we go cheer him on?”

“Lead the way.”

It did not take Oliver long to notice that drink had turned Doncroft’s charmingly boyish smile, which usually made women flock to him, into a salacious leer that made them raise their fans and hide their faces from him. This was no good. “Come, old man. I have changed my mind. Let’s step outside for a smoke.”

“Capital idea. My father returned from the West Indies this week and brought with him some of the best cigars I have ever tasted. I cannot wait for you to try one.”

Before exiting the ballroom, Oliver caught Radclyffe’s attention and made certain he understood to meet them outside when his dances with Miss Dorcas ended.

From the conservatory, they stepped out onto the highest level of the terraced garden. The formal garden behind the house, which had been recently refurbished, was well lit and populated with plenty of courting couples taking in the cool springtime air. Oliver and Doncroft found a place to perch on a low stone wall overlooking the fountain terrace.

He hated to admit it, because he hated to think anyone of lower rank than himself had anything nicer or better than he, but Wakesdown Manor far outstripped Chawley Abbey in grandeur. Too bad Edith Buchanan had two older brothers and was not heiress of the estate in addition to a large fortune.

He and Doncroft were halfway through the slim, fragrant cigars when Radclyffe joined them.

“I do believe our friend is about to break his own heart, pining after a woman he cannot have.” Doncroft offered the open silver cigar case toward Radclyffe, but he waved it away.

“I have news on that front.” Radclyffe straddled the wall on the opposite side of Oliver from Doncroft. “Negotiations between my father and Dr. Suggitt have ended with no engagement to his horse-faced daughter. For which I will live in gratitude my entire life. Once I hinted to Father that it might be possible for me to court Miss Dorcas Buchanan, he lost all regard for Miss Suggitt and her ten thousand pounds.”

“Well, I hear there is to be a wedding in the family, so Miss Dorcas’s mind will soon turn to matrimony.” Oliver snuffed out the cigar, finding it too acerbic for his taste.

“A wedding?” Doncroft lit up a fresh cheroot. “Have you and Miss Buchanan come to terms, then?”

“I am not the one to be ‘leg-shackled’ just yet. No announcement has been made, but I believe Miss Dorcas’s cousin Katharine will be exchanging vows soon . . . with Lord Thynne.” Oliver swung his legs over the wall the opposite direction from Doncroft so the acrid smoke did not blow directly into his face.

Radclyffe glanced toward the back of the house. “Now I understand why Sir Anthony withheld his permission for me to formally announce my intention to court Miss Dorcas. If the family is to be connected to a viscount, the value for each of the Buchanan girls on the marriage market will increase significantly, beyond the vast fortunes they bring with them.”

Oliver sighed. “Yes, and you have the pick of the litter, I must say.”

Doncroft guffawed. “Dear boy, are you having doubts about your arrangement with the oh-so-prickly Miss Edith Buchanan?”

“Not doubts, exactly. But I have no illusions as to what life with a woman like that will be like.” He grunted. “Can either of you imagine my mother and Edith Buchanan living under the same roof?”

“Your hunting lodge in Middlesex will be much used, I wager.” Doncroft stamped out the half-finished second cigar. “I am dry as a bone and in need of a beverage.” He inclined his head and wavered a few steps before getting his footing and returning to the house.

“Are you certain Miss Dearing is to marry Lord Thynne?” Radclyffe sounded more like the hesitant, easily flustered boy of fourteen Oliver and Doncroft had taken on as a project at Eaton than the educated, wealthy man of eight-and-twenty he now was.

“Almost certain. Though, as you said, no announcement was made. Miss Buchanan has been expecting it for weeks.” He did not add that his potential wife planned to try to stop the marriage from taking place.

“At least she will have her cousin’s wedding plans to keep her busy and out of your . . . ‘business’ in North Parade.” Radclyffe winked. “How goes it with the seamstress?”

Oliver shared Edith’s demand that he never visit Miss Bainbridge again. “The first part of my plan goes into action tomorrow morning. I have something scheduled for each day of the coming week to make Miss Bainbridge think of me. It will culminate at our servants’ ball, when I shall make my intentions known.”

Radclyffe sat up straighter, surprise lengthening his face. “Surely you are not going to—”

“No. I will not tell her about the wager. She only needs to know I plan to make her fall madly in love with me. I care not about what happens after that.” That strange foreign feeling tried to insinuate itself in his chest, but he once again ignored it.

“And if Miss Buchanan gets wind of it? What then?”

“She is not yet my fiancée or my wife. I am not formally courting her. She may do as she pleases; it makes no difference to me.” Oliver rubbed his hands together. “However, it will make winning the wager that much more pleasurable to know I’ve done it under her express prohibition.”

Yes, now more than ever, Oliver wanted to win that bet. Even if he did not have the challenge spurring him on, he would still want to woo Miss Bainbridge, just because Edith Buchanan had forbidden him from it.

This little scheme was turning out to be more fun than he could possibly have imagined.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

C
addy tried to give the appearance of paying attention throughout the rector’s homily; however, when Neal Stradbroke had entered the church just before service started, every pious and worshipful thought fled from her mind. He had been here every Sunday since his arrival in North Parade. But after watching him walk away with the two burly strangers yesterday, she had been prepared never to see him again—or not for a very long time at any rate.

The epistle to the Ephesians, from whence came the proscribed passage for the third Sunday of Lent, was one her father had studied and shared his thoughts about often. The rector of the St. Giles church had obviously not spent as much time developing his opinions of the text as Father had. And he was not so engaging a speaker as Father had been, which gave Caddy’s mind yet more reason to wander.

When the congregation stood to sing the closing hymn, the sonorous bass voice coming from four rows behind wrapped around Caddy like an embrace. She found herself wishing it were more than his voice that embraced her. She remembered only too well what it had felt like to have him wrap his arm around her to help her up the stairs after her injury, and she had allowed herself to indulge too often in imagining what it would be like for him to wrap
both
arms around her. The idea of giving in to the strength and support he represented was too tempting.

Caddy stopped singing, closed her eyes, and prayed for God to renew her strength and resolve. After all, as Paul had written in the fifth chapter of Ephesians,
“Have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather reprove them. . . . All things that are reproved are made manifest by the light: for whatsoever doth make manifest is light.”
And what were secrets if not the “unfruitful works of darkness”? Although, since Dr. Stradbroke continued to cross her path, perhaps God was showing her that she needed to be the one to provide the reproof necessary for Neal to bring his secrets to light.

Just before the hymn ended, Caddy remembered Mr. Longrieve and sent up a quick prayer for his trial tomorrow. She then helped Mother with her cape before donning her own shawl.

Several ladies of their acquaintance surrounded Mother, remarking on her seeming recovery of late.

“I have the most wonderful new doctor. Oh, there he is. Dr. Stradbroke.” Mother waved her handkerchief at him, and with a sheepish smile, Neal excused his way through the exiting parishioners in the central aisle to come to Mother’s side.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bainbridge. You are looking well.” Neal glanced over Mother’s head and caught Caddy’s gaze. “Miss Bainbridge.”

“Doctor.” Caddy glanced away, her cheeks burning with the frustrated longing in her heart to allow her attraction toward him to show.

Mother praised Neal’s doctoring skills until his face was as red as Caddy’s felt. Finally, he gently interrupted her. “If you will excuse me”—he inclined his head to the group—“I must speak with Miss Bainbridge.”

At the glances exchanged among Mother’s friends, even the tips of Caddy’s ears burned. But she kept her expression as neutral as possible when she stepped around the far end of the pew to meet Neal in the side aisle.

He watched his hands as he turned his hat around and around in them. “Miss Bainbridge . . . I know I promised that I would attend the trial with you tomorrow. But urgent business calls me to London.”

Caddy’s stomach dropped as if she’d missed a couple of steps running down the stairs. “What manner of business could be more urgent than the trial?”

Pain—and a good measure of guilt—filled his blue eyes when he finally looked up from his hat. “I cannot tell you how abjectly I deplore the situation. However, I must be on a train bound for London this afternoon.”

Caddy crossed her arms, wrapping her shawl tightly about her in the chilled air of the sanctuary. She had no right to ask, but betrayal knew no censorship. “Does this have anything to do with Mr. Birchip and Mr. Macquarie?”

Neal’s normally ruddy complexion paled. He opened and closed his mouth several times, and he looked as if he waged an internal war regarding whether or not to reveal his secrets. “It is nothing untoward, I assure you. Simply a business matter that must be immediately attended to.”

He hesitated, then reached for her hand and pressed it between his large, warm ones. “I will never be able to apologize enough that I must leave at such a time. But I can assure you that my thoughts and prayers will be with Mr. Longrieve the entire time.”

She pulled her hand from his grasp. “And am I to inform Mrs. Longrieve of this for you?”

His obvious shock came from either the anger in her tone or her unspoken accusation of cowardice. “No. I am leaving here now to go see Mrs. Longrieve to tell her. I know I have not been as . . . forthcoming about myself as you would like, Miss Bainbridge, but I did hope that you would have a higher regard for me than that.” He bowed, turned on his heel, and exited the church.

Caddy grabbed the back of the nearest pew to stop herself from running after him and apologizing. She did have higher regard for him than that—or she wanted to. But she could not give him the trust he seemed to desire as much as she desired his honesty.

After a moment to compose herself, Caddy sidled through the pew to join her mother—and stopped short at the end.

Oliver Carmichael stood, hands clasped behind his back, leaning in toward the small circle of women, speaking in a voice too low for his words to carry the few feet to Caddy.

Mother’s friends wore expressions of awe that someone of Mr. Carmichael’s rank would deign to come to St. Giles, and furthermore that he would make a point of coming over and speaking to a woman of their own social status.

He stepped back to allow room for Caddy to come out into the aisle. She hoped he hadn’t noticed her hesitation. Though she did not care much for him, she could not afford to offend him.

She returned his greeting, then turned to Mother. “Are you ready to go?”

“Miss Bainbridge, it would be my pleasure to see you and your mother home.” Oliver moved so he stood in the center of the circle of women, facing Caddy. “My carriage is just outside.”

“Oh, no thank you, Mr. Carmichael. ’Tis only half a mile’s walk. We would not imagine inconveniencing you for so short a distance.” Caddy held her elbow toward mother, expecting her to immediately take the offer of support so they could leave. Mother pushed Caddy’s arm away with a scowl before turning a beatific smile up at Mr. Carmichael again.

He returned Mother’s smile and offered her his arm. “Then allow me to walk you home. I will not take no for an answer.”

Most young women—and many older women, she observed from looking around at Mother’s friends—probably found his playful grin and lowered chin charmingly handsome and irresistible. But with a mind still pondering what Neal Stradbroke’s business in London could possibly be, she had no patience for Oliver Carmichael and his flirtations.