Anne Barbour (28 page)

A sense of desolation swept over her. She was trapped. Even if she were able to avoid marriage to the wretched Marquess of Belhaven, she would be fastened into the role of spinster daughter in her father's household, at the mercy of his whims and at the beck and call of Mama and her sisters. She would forever be dear-Aunt-Eden-who-never-married-you-know. Even on his death—although, God forbid, she loved the hidebound old tyrant and did not wish him ill—he would probably consign her to the care of some other male. Her sister Meg's husband, perhaps, or her Uncle Henry Beckett, Papa's younger brother.

All because of Seth's faithlessness. How could she bear it? She wanted to run from the house, screaming her desolation and her betrayal. She wanted to run to Derwent House, to rage her hurt to Seth Lindow.

She recalled their day at the bank, the hope that had soared in her breast like a young eagle—the laughter she had shared with Seth, and the absurd, high-hearted jokes. How could he have destroyed her happiness with such easy cruelty?

On reflection, she rather doubted that his actions had been deliberate. She could think of nothing she might have done or said that would kindle such enmity in his breast. It was simply as though he had formed a brief
tendre for
her and then the flame had blown out with a careless puff. He no doubt thought little of it when the duke and her father called him in to ask about the particulars of her contract with Mr. Rellihan. He had already made plain his disapproval of her bid for independence. She could almost see him shrugging. Perhaps he even smiled ruefully at the brevity of her escape from the shackles of family obligation.

She drew a shaking hand over her eyes. What would be—?

"Eden!" It was Zoë, who rushed into the room, white-faced and shaking. "Eden, where have you been? I've been looking all over for you. Dear God, I have such dreadful news!"

She flung herself into a nearby settee, drawing her sister down beside her. In one trembling hand she held a scrap of paper, which she waved wildly under Eden's nose.

"I have just received a note from Bel! He says—oh, Eden, I can scarcely credit it! His papa has ordered him to marry. To marry you!" she fairly screeched the word, as though Bel had just been sentenced to hang.

"Yes, I know," whispered Eden through dry lips. She related her conversation with Lord Beckett, omitting the portion that dealt with Zoë's perceived unsuitability for the position of Marchioness of Belhaven.

Zoë jumped to her feet once more. "Bel says not to worry, that such a thing will never come to pass—that he will die before he would marry y— Oh. I did not mean ... of course ... But..."

Eden would have smiled if she had not been so close to releasing the tide of tears that rose behind her eyes. "No, I know you did not. You need not fear. I shall not marry the marquess— not that you will be marrying him, either."

"Oh. No, of course not," agreed Zoë quickly. "But, you know how Papa is. He will bore at you and bore at you, and you were never able to stand up to him. I never could, either, but I learned how to get round him. You did not."

"That's true, my dear, and it is time I began to do so—stand up to him, that is. I shall never learn your tricksey ways, but I shan't allow him to bully me in this."

Zoë smiled tremulously. "That's very well said, Eden, and I hope you will be able to withstand Papa's tactics. However, I shouldn't be surprised if he whisks you off to Clearsprings to live on bread and water until you capitulate."

Eden's returning smile was grim. "I shouldn't wonder if you're right, but since it wouldn't profit him anything to actually let me starve to death, I need only outwait him."

Zoë shivered and glanced once more at the note, making it clear she placed her trust elsewhere. With a sigh, she paced the floor for a few moments before halting abruptly before the fire. "I cannot face Mama right now. I believe I'll go to my bedchamber to... to write some letters. I shan't be down to dinner."

"But what about tonight? We are to go to Lady Medster's musicale."

"Oh, bother! Well, it won't be an untruth to say I have a thundering headache and I cannot go."

She swept from the room, leaving Eden to stare into the embers in the hearth. She wished only to sink into the pit of desolation that beckoned, but she had reckoned without Mama.

"Eden! I have been looking for you everywhere!" that lady exclaimed, bustling into the room a few moments later. "I have been wanting to get you to myself for a comfortable coze all day. I want to tell you again how happy I am for you. Who would have thought that you would become a married lady before your little sister. And to a duke's son!"

"Indeed, Mama—to a duke's son."

Lady Beckett gazed uncertainly at her daughter. "B-but, you are not pleased, dearest?" She paused, plucking at the lace that adorned her bodice. "You are not thinking of the ridiculous stories circulating about the Marquess of Belhaven, are you? I... I'm sure they are all malicious gossip."

"That's not what you were saying last week. Mama."

"Oh. Well, yes, but I had not considered, then. Just think, Eden. Even if he ... that is, you will be a marchioness—a duchess some day. You will have clothes and jewels and become a leader of society."

"Something to which I have always aspired," replied Eden dryly. "Mama, you are confusing me with Zoë."

"Oh, dearest!" cried Mama distressfully. "You know I wish only for all my children to be happy. Do you not think you could be happy with all that lovely money? Why, you could paint to your heart's content—and grow the finest roses in the country."

Again, Eden was forced to smile despite herself. But...

"Mama," she said gently. "I am truly sorry to disappoint you and Papa, but I am not going to marry the Marquess of Belhaven. The man is a monster, and I sincerely pity any woman unfortunate enough to be wed to him. I do not plan to be that woman."

With this, she disengaged her hands from her mother's clutching fingers and took herself off to her own chamber, where she remained for the rest of the evening. Taking a leaf from Zoë's book, she invented a headache and sent her regrets to her mama that she would be unable to attend the Medster's musicale. Mama visited her chamber to dither and commiserate and left finally to storm society's bastion once more, this time in the company of Mrs. Fenmore Wibberly, a wealthy widow, whose acquaintance Lady Beckett had been cultivating for some weeks.

Eden expected to sleep little that night, but the events of the day had exhausted her. Soon after blowing out her candle, she fell into a slumber that was deep, if troubled. Nightmares tore at her sleeping mind like shafts of flame rising from her own personal hell, but she did not open her eyes the next morning until Makepeace, her maid, entered with her morning chocolate.

She had barely imbibed her first sip of that beverage when Beadle, Zoë's maid, rushed into the room without so much as knocking. She was flushed and breathless, and her eyes stared wide as cartwheels.

"Oh, miss! It's Miss Zoë! She's gone!"

Eden simply gaped. "W-what?"

"Miss Zoë's not in her bed. It ain't—hasn't been slept in all night. She's gone. Miss Eden."

Beadle approached Eden's bed, waving a crumpled bit of paper in her hand. "She left a note."

Eden accepted the scrap in trembling fingers and read the information conveyed there.

Dear Mama and Papa and Eden,

I hope I have not overset you, but I have run away with the Marquess of Belhaven. We are going to be married! Is that not famous? I know, Papa, that you have made different plans—regarding Bel and Eden, but I hope you won't mind this substitution!!! I know you want me to be happy. And I love Bel. Please do not try to follow us. Bel has everything planned, and he says you won't be able to find us. We will return in a few days, and then I'll be a married lady—and the Marchioness of Belhaven!

Y'r loving daughter, Zoë Beckett

For some moments, Eden could only stare uncomprehendingly at the note, as though it were written in a foreign language. Then, to the accompaniment of Beadle's sniffs, she threw back the covers and pulled on a dressing gown. Hurrying down the corridor, she entered her mother's bedchamber, where her ladyship's maid was just drawing back the hangings.

Waking her gently, she apprised Lady Beckett of Zoë's disappearance. The lady responded as expected.

"Never say so! My little girl in the hands of that ravisher of innocent maidens?" she screamed, conveniently forgetting her malicious gossip theory. "Oh, was any mother so beset?" She cast a cursory glance over the note and screeched once more. "What is to be done, Eden? Oh, my darling, my pet—ruined! Or—oh, Eden, do you think he truly means to marry the gel? No, of course not. Oh, heavens, we shall never be able to hold our heads up again in polite society. Oh, that wicked girl!"

She clasped and unclasped her hands, and clutched at Eden. She issued a barely comprehensible flurry of contradictory orders to her maid before swinging once more to her oldest daughter. "Papa!" she moaned. "He will go into apoplexy! But—oh, you must tell him at once, Eden. He will know what to do."

Eden, who had been thinking furiously on her own, rang for the housekeeper. That lady, who had undoubtedly been waiting for just such a summons, bustled into the room almost immediately. Eden impressed upon her the need for keeping the current situation a secret from the rest of the household, and handed over the two maids to her care. Then, gently, but with great firmness, she turned back to Lady Beckett.

"No, Mama. We must not tell Papa. Not just yet. You must keep him in the dark on this for as long as you can. In the meantime, I shall pursue Zoë on my own."

"Pursue her?" Lady Beckett twisted the bedclothes she clutched in both hands. "But— Oh, Eden, do you know where they have gone?"

"No," replied her daughter shortly. "But I think I know who might."

With that, she spun on her heel and left the room. Returning on the run to her own chamber, she dressed hastily. Ordering the family's traveling carriage and her maid and a footman to accompany her, she packed a few essentials in a small portmanteau. In a few moments she was on her way to Grosvenor Square. Much as she was loathe to do so, she knew well to whom she must turn for help.

Chapter Twenty-two

She drew up some minutes later at her destination. Derwent House stood silent in the early morning sunlight. Accompanied by the footman, she ascended the steps of the house, pulling firmly on the doorbell. It was some moments before the door opened narrowly to expose the unwilling features of the Derwent butler.

"Yes, I know, Bentick," she said firmly, grateful that the fellow's name had popped into her mind. "It is very early, but the circumstances of my, er, visit, are most unusual. Please inform Mr. Lindow that Miss Eden Beckett is here and wishes to speak to him on a matter of great urgency."

Bentick's suspicions were apparently unallayed, but the authority with which Eden infused her voice seemed to sway him. With obvious reluctance, he opened the door an inch or two wider.

"The family's still abed, miss," he said brusquely. "I have not seen Mr. Lindow as yet. If you would like to leave a message, I shall see that he is given it as soon as he comes down."

"I'm afraid that will be unsatisfactory. I must speak to him now. Please open the door. I have no wish to stand any longer out here in the street."

At this, the footman, who was one of Eden's staunchest supporters at Nassington House, placed a large hand on the door and pushed inward. This resulted in an equal and opposite reaction from Bentick, and a struggle ensued.

"I can't possibly rouse Mr. Lindow," panted the butler, "and if you two do not cease and desist, I shall be forced to call for reinforcements. Your behavior, I am bound to say, miss, is outrageous. This is the residence of the Duke of Derwent, and we are unaccustomed to such goings-on. Now, if you—"

"What is it, Bentick?" inquired a voice from inside the house, and Eden sagged with relief.

"A female, sir," replied the servant, his voice stiff with disapproval. "She wants to speak to you, but I was just sending her on her way."

"Seth!" called Eden in a low voice, whereupon footsteps could be heard hastening toward the door, which was peremptorily Hung open. Seth moved through the aperture, and at sight of her, a spark of something she could not name leaped into his eyes and was as quickly extinguished.

"Eden!" he exclaimed with what seemed to her sensitive ears a strained cordiality. The next instant, she was startled as he added, "My dear, come in."

My dear?

Eden brushed past the butler and spoke icily to Seth. "I apologize for my ... my unorthodox appearance at your home at this untimely hour. Believe me, if it were not absolutely necessary for me to speak to you, I should not dream of doing so."

Casting her a puzzled glance, Seth murmured to Bentick, who promptly dissolved into the early-morning gloom of the house's interior and from thence vanished into its nether regions with the footman.

On the short journey from Portman Square to Derwent House, Eden had rehearsed both her speech and her demeanor. She was extremely reluctant to seek help from Seth Lindow. For that matter, she never wanted to see or speak to him again, except perhaps to hurl at him her outrage and her betrayal and her hurt. In her preoccupation with what she would say to Seth and how she would say it, her sister's predicament had not faded, precisely, but had taken up for the moment a secondary position in her consciousness. She resolved to not so much as mention his perfidy, his black-hearted ruination of her future— her dreams of independence and the cruel hoax he had played on her and her sister.

Now she followed him as he led her to the rear of the house and his study. Having reached his sanctum, where candles already burned on a paper-littered desk, he inquired politely if she would like some refreshment.

Seth stared at Eden in some bewilderment. Since their encounter at Hunstanton House not two days ago, he had thought of almost nothing else. He had missed her abominably in the weeks since he had bid her his discreet farewell. He had known his departure from her would leave a void in his life, but he hadn't realized just how painful it would be. When he had greeted her at Huntstanton House, it was as though he had come home to a loved haven. She had been cool then, not surprising. Now, however, her gray eyes brimmed with—no, not just hostility, but with what looked very much like hatred. What could have happened in the intervening hours to create such an expression of frigid contempt on her delicate features?