Jane Ashford (25 page)

A quarter of an hour later, a large group of people once again stood about in the small parlor of the inn. A baize curtain had been hung over the west window, which had been pushed completely out of its frame, and the bright fire was welcome as the now chilly night air made its way around this obstacle. Lord Farnsworth was gone, having departed hastily for London some ten minutes previous, but Anne Rundgate and the captain remained, sitting side by side on the sofa, and the earl and Marina had joined them. Clarissa sat beside Lord Redmon, who was stretched out on the opposite settee, his arm now tightly bandaged. Laura was again in the armchair in the corner. Mr. Allenby was not in sight.

Two latecomers stood in the center of the room. Eliot Crenshaw was splendid in his modish riding dress, but it was his unusual companion who was the center of attention now, as he related his story. Mr. Levy, the moneylender, was telling the group how he had come to find out Jack Allenby’s plot and to rescue Laura from him. Dressed in a black coat and pantaloons, with his dark face and aquiline nose highlighted by the radiance from an oil lamp, Mr. Levy held his audience spellbound.

“It was through my friend Rothschild that I was able to act,” he was saying. “Without the help of his organization, I could not have accomplished all I did.”

“Rothschild,” repeated the earl meditatively, “that’s the fellow who made all the war loans, ain’t it? They say he had carrier pigeons at Waterloo.”

Mr. Levy bowed his head. “He did indeed. He has one of the most efficient information services in England. He saved the Exchange in ’15, and he has now helped me punish a scoundrel. Mr. John Allenby will not run a gaming house in London again.”

“Saved the Change,” murmured the earl, “Splendid. Rothschild, Rothschild, must remember the name.”

“The Baron Nathan de Rothschild,” put in Mr. Levy with something very like pride.

The earl looked up. “Ah, baron?”

Levy nodded. “An Austrian title.”

“Oh well.” The earl shrugged. “Still it’s better than nothing.”

“He does not use it.”

The other man gaped. “Not use it! Why, the man…”

Laura could not keep still any longer. “But why?” she cried. “Why did you help me in this way? I don’t understand.”

Marina took the earl’s hand gently and patted it; he subsided.

Mr. Levy turned to Laura and bowed slightly. “It must indeed seem strange to you, madame, and my explanation may appear even more illogical. I helped you because of my sister.”

Laura looked at him. “Your sister?”

“Yes. My sister, Adrienne Levy, took her own life four years ago after having lost her fortune at the gaming tables. She didn’t come to me; I had lectured her about gambling more than once. She was alone and afraid, and no one aided her, least of all the scoundrels who had taken her money, men like Allenby.” Mr. Levy gazed at the floor for a moment. There was a sympathetic silence in the room. He cleared his throat. “It was when you came out of the parlor to speak to your sister,” he continued. “Up to that time I had thought only of negotiating the loan, but when I got a glimpse of Adrienne’s portrait…”

“The dark woman above the fireplace!” exclaimed Laura.

He nodded. “Yes. That was Adrienne in happier days. I saw her, and then my eyes fell to the two of you.” He looked from Laura to Clarissa. “The resemblance is of the slightest, nonexistent save in my mind, I suppose, but I was suddenly struck. And I made up my mind to help you then and there. After that it was a simple matter to set men to find out why you needed money.”

Laura looked at him wonderingly. “You sent the notes, paid the debts?”

Mr. Levy bowed his head once again. “And when I found what had been done to you, I went further.” His dark eyes burned for a moment. “The Allenbys shan’t lure any more young men or women into losing more than they can pay, you may be sure of that. I now hold the mortgage on the house and certain other bills. I should imagine that he, at least, will soon find this country too hot for him.”

“Where is he?” asked Laura, looking around.

“Safely locked away for now, though I fear we cannot hold him.”

Something like regret passed across Laura’s face. Eliot watched her narrowly. She wished Jack Allenby no harm now that she was free of him. But then she thought of the others he might pull into his everlasting games, and her expression hardened. It was no doubt best that Mr. Levy carry through his plan. She looked up to find both Mr. Levy and Eliot considering her. She stood and held out a hand. “I do not know how to thank you, Mr. Levy. You have saved me in truth. I shall always be grateful.”

The moneylender took her hand and bowed over it. “A pleasure, I assure you, madame. And more; it allowed me to feel that I have somewhat atoned for my sister’s death.”

Laura smiled uncertainly.

“And now I will take my leave,” continued Mr. Levy. “I wish to reach London before morning, so I had best be on my way.” He bid the group good-bye, and all returned his farewell cordially as he went out.

“Whew!” exclaimed Clarissa when he was gone. “What do you think of that? If I hadn’t heard him tell it, I should never have believed the story.”

“Strange indeed,” said Eliot, speaking for the first time since they had entered the parlor. “When he came to the house to fetch me, I could scarcely credit it myself.”

“He came for you?” asked Clarissa, rendering her sister eternally grateful.

“Yes. As soon as his man reported that he had seen Allenby follow Laura out of town. Both Allenby and Levy had someone stationed to observe her movements.”

Clarissa took a breath. “Amazing.”

Eliot smiled. “Indeed. But now I think we should all follow our friend’s example. It is growing late and has been a strenuous evening. We should return to town. Levy has taken Allenby, as we agreed, and I shall use his carriage. The rest of you have vehicles, it appears. The yard is certainly crowded with them.”

“Yes,” replied Clarissa rising, “we must get Geoffrey to a proper doctor as soon as may be.”

Lord Redmon grinned. “You didn’t think of that until the story was finished, I note. A man might have bled to death.”

“I knew perfectly well that you were bandaged,” retorted Clarissa.

“Yes, but would it have mattered? That’s what worries me.”

Clarissa put her hands on her hips. “You put little trust in me,
my lord
.”

At this form of address, Lord Redmon subsided, his cheeks reddening.

“Exactly,” put in Eliot. “We all have much to discuss. We had best get under way.” The earl and Marina rose also, but there was a strangled sound from the sofa behind them.

Anne Rundgate had begun to cry. “What am I to do?” she stammered between sobs. “My mother will never forgive me.”

“Ah yes, Miss Rundgate,” said Eliot blandly, his face showing no interest in the girl’s tears. “I took the liberty of sending a note to your mother before I left London.”

Anne jumped to her feet. “You told her! Oh no!” The captain stood to comfort her, for she seemed about to fall into hysterics.

Eliot’s eyebrows went up. “I did. And before I could depart, she had sent my man back telling me not to be such a lackwit. Evidently she had been expecting for some weeks to receive Captain Wetmore’s proposal for your hand.”

Both Anne and the captain gaped at him.

“You have been indulging yourself shockingly, young woman,” finished Eliot severely. “I suggest you go home to your mother immediately and ask her pardon.”

Anne continued to stare, but the captain took her arm in a firm grip and started to lead her out of the room. “You may be sure we shall, sir,” he said as they passed through the door.

The earl and Marina followed them as Clarissa helped Lord Redmon to his feet. “Well done,” said the latter. “That girl has needed someone to speak to her sharply for years, I’d say.”

“I think it was horrid,” began Clarissa, but Lord Redmon guided her firmly toward the door. Eliot and Laura were left alone.

Laura gazed steadfastly at the floor. For some minutes her thoughts had been occupied with this scene. What would Eliot say to her? Was he very angry?

He came closer, still saying nothing. When the silence grew too long, she looked up and met his eyes. He was watching her steadily. “Laura,” he said, his voice full of feeling, “will you forgive me?”

Her eyes widened. “I?” she stammered, “forgive
you
?”

“Yes. I have been an arrogant fool. If recent events had not been enough to show it to me, my talk with Levy during the drive today would have done so. You could not come to me, could you?”

“I… I…” Laura could not find the words.

Eliot nodded sadly. “I was harsh, unyielding. I did not listen. But you see, I had never before encountered a woman like you. I did not know how to go on, particularly when my own feelings became so strong.”

“You are not fair to yourself. You have always been kind and just.”

He groaned a little.

“The only thing I really minded…” Laura broke off, embarrassed.

“Yes?”

She looked down. She could not seem to say that the only thing she had minded was his mistress. “We never should have married,” she replied miserably.

The lines beside his mouth deepened. “Is that how you truly feel now?”

Laura stared at the floor. “I have made a mull of everything. There will be a great scandal, and you will hate that so. It is all so awful; I can’t bear it.”

Eliot reached down and put one finger under her chin, raising her face to his. The movement caused her tears to spill over her cheeks. “I would not see you unhappy for the world,” he told her. “Everything will be just as you wish. The marriage can be dissolved, if that is what you want.”

Laura’s tears fell faster. “I know that would be best,” she gulped. “Your name would not be disgraced. I will do it, of course. I’m sorry.”

“My
name
has nothing to do with the matter,” he answered so harshly that Laura blinked. “Only
you
, your feelings, are important.”

“I? But how can you care, after what I have done? I am not at all the sort of proper wife you wanted.”

He laughed bitterly. “Not the sort I wanted? But my darling, I was the greatest fool in nature until I met you.”

Laura stared at him, her tears abating. “Do you mean…”

“I love you, Laura. I never thought to hear myself saying those words, but they are true. I will do whatever you wish.”

Laura blinked again, hardly able to believe what she heard. “But I have been in love with you almost from the beginning,” she said.

There was a moment of stillness during which they stared at each other; then she was in his arms being passionately kissed. She returned his embrace wholeheartedly, and it was several minutes before they separated and laughed shakily. Keeping one arm around her, he led her to the sofa.

“What fools we have been,” he said.

Laura nodded.

“Tell me now. What was the one thing you minded,” he added.

She looked down again. “Well, Eliot, I did mind your mistress.” She smiled slightly. “I shan’t allow that sort of thing now, you know. How I should have liked to slap her!”

Eliot frowned. “My mistress? But dear heart…”

“Yes. I did not realize I could dislike anyone as I do Vera Allenby.”

“But my darling Laura, Vera and I have not had any connection since you and I were snowbound.”

“But she… Lady Quale said…”

Eliot’s smile died. “Ah. I didn’t count on the gossips. Nevertheless it is true that I severed all connection with Vera when we married. Could you think I would do anything less?”

“I should have known better, for you are first of all a man of honor, are you not, Eliot?”

He looked at her sharply, caught the laugh in her eyes, and smiled. “I am. Are you disappointed in that?”

“Not at all. Quite the contrary.”

Their eyes held for a moment more; then she was in his arms again.

Don’t miss this brand-new Regency romance from beloved bestseller Jane Ashford

Once Again a Bride

Available now from Sourcebooks Casablanca

Charlotte Rutherford Wylde closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of the brush moving rhythmically through her long hair. Lucy had been her maid since she was eleven years old and was well aware that her mistress’s lacerated feelings needed soothing. The whole household was aware, no doubt, but only Lucy cared. The rest of the servants had a hundred subtle, unprovable ways of intensifying the laceration. It had become a kind of sport for them, Charlotte believed, growing more daring as the months passed without reprimand, denied with a practiced blankness that made her doubly a fool.

Lucy stopped brushing and began to braid Charlotte’s hair for the night. Charlotte opened her eyes and faced up to the dressing table mirror. Candlelight gleamed on the creamy lace of her nightdress, just visible under the heavy dressing gown that protected her from drafts. Her bedchamber was cold despite the fire on this bitter March night. Every room in this tall, narrow London house was cold. Cold in so many different ways.

She ought to be changed utterly by these months, Charlotte thought. But the mirror showed her hair of the same coppery gold, eyes the same hazel—though without any hint of the sparkle that had once been called alluring. Her familiar oval face, straight nose, and full lips had been judged pretty a scant year, and a lifetime, ago. She was perhaps too thin, now that each meal was an ordeal. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and they looked hopelessly back at her like those of a trapped animal. She remembered suddenly a squirrel she had found one long-ago winter—frozen during a terrible cold snap that had turned the countryside hard and bitter. It had lain on its side in the snow, its legs poised as if running from icy death.

“There you are, Miss Charlotte.” Lucy put a comforting hand on her shoulder. When they were alone, she always used the old familiar form of address. It was a futile but comforting pretense. “Can I get you anything…?”

“No, thank you, Lucy.” Charlotte tried to put a world of gratitude into her tone as she repeated, “Thank you.”

“You should get into bed. I warmed the sheets.”

“I will. In a moment. You go on to bed yourself.”

“Are you sure I can’t…?”

“I’m all right.”

Neither of them believed it. Lucy pressed her lips together on some reply, then sketched a curtsy and turned to go. Slender, yet solid as a rock, her familiar figure was such a comfort that Charlotte almost called her back. But Lucy deserved her sleep. She shouldn’t be deprived just because Charlotte expected none.

The door opened and closed. The candles guttered and steadied. Charlotte sat on, rehearsing thoughts and plans she had already gone over a hundred times. There must be something she could do, some approach she could discover to make things—if not right, at least better. Not hopeless, not unendurable.

Her father—her dear, scattered, and now departed father—had done his best. She had to believe that. Tears came as she thought of him; when he died six months ago, he’d no longer remembered who she was. The brutal erosion of his mind, his most prized possession, had been complete.

It had happened so quickly. Yes, he’d always been distracted, so deep in his scholarly work that practicalities escaped him. But in his library, reading and writing, corresponding with other historians, he’d never lost or mistaken the smallest detail. Until two years ago, when the insidious slide began—unnoticed, dismissed, denied until undeniable. Then he had set all his fading faculties on getting her “safely” married. That one idea had obsessed and sustained him as all else slipped away. Perforce, he’d looked among his own few friends and acquaintances for a groom. Why, why had he chosen Henry Wylde?

In her grief and fear, Charlotte had put up no protest. She’d even been excited by the thought of moving from her isolated country home to the city, with all its diversions and amusements. And so, at age eighteen, she’d been married to a man almost thirty years older. Had she imagined it would be some sort of eccentric fairy tale? How silly and ignorant had she been? She couldn’t remember now.

It wasn’t all stupidity; unequal matches need not be disastrous. She had observed a few older husbands who treated their young wives with every appearance of delight and appreciation. Not quite so much older, perhaps. But… from the day after the wedding, Henry had treated her like a troublesome pupil foisted upon his household for the express purpose of irritating him. He criticized everything she did. Just this morning, at breakfast, he had accused her of forgetting his precise instructions on how to brew his tea. She had
not
forgotten, not one single fussy step; she had carefully counted out the minutes in her head—easily done because Henry allowed no conversation at breakfast. He always brought a book. She was sure she had timed it exactly right, and still he railed at her for ten minutes, in front of the housemaid. She had ended up with the knot in her stomach and lump in her throat that were her constant companions now. The food lost all appeal.

If her husband did talk to her, it was most often about Tiberius or Hadrian or some other ancient. He spent his money—quite a lot of money, she suspected, and most of it hers—and all his affection on his collections. The lower floor of the house was like a museum, filled with cases of Roman coins and artifacts, shelves of books about Rome. For Henry, these things were important, and she, emphatically, was not.

After nearly a year of marriage, Charlotte still felt like a schoolgirl. It might have been different if there were a chance of children, but her husband seemed wholly uninterested in the process of getting them. And by this time, the thought of any physical contact with him repelled Charlotte so completely that she didn’t know what she would do if he suddenly changed his mind.

She stared into the mirror, watching the golden candle flames dance, feeling the drafts caress the back of her neck, seeing her life stretch out for decades in this intolerable way. It had become quite clear that it would drive her mad. And so, she had made her plan. Henry avoided her during the day, and she could not speak to him at meals, with the prying eyes of servants all around them. After dinner, he went to his club and stayed until she had gone to bed. So she would not go to bed. She would stay up and confront him, no matter how late. She would insist on changes.

She had tried waiting warm under the bedclothes but had failed to stay awake for two nights. Last night, she’d fallen asleep in the armchair and missed her opportunity. Tonight, she would sit up straight on the dressing table stool with no possibility of slumber. She rose and set the door ajar, ignoring the increased draft this created. She could see the head of the stairs from here; he could not get by her. She would thrash it out tonight, no matter what insults he flung at her. The memory of that cold, dispassionate voice reciting her seemingly endless list of faults made her shiver, but she would not give up.

The candles fluttered and burned down faster. Charlotte waited, jerking upright whenever she started to nod off. Once, she nearly fell off the backless stool. But she endured, hour after hour, into the deeps of the night. She replaced the stubs of the candles. She added coals to the fire, piled on another heavy shawl against the chill. She rubbed her hands together to warm them, gritted her teeth, and held on until light showed in the crevices of the draperies and birds began to twitter outside. Another day had dawned, and Henry Wylde had not come home. Her husband had spent the night elsewhere.

Pulling her shawls closer, Charlotte contemplated this stupefying fact. The man she saw as made of ice had a secret life? He kept a mistress? He drank himself into insensibility and collapsed at his club? He haunted the gaming hells with feverish wagers? Impossible to picture any of these things. But she had never waited up so long before. She had no idea what he did with his nights.

Chilled to the bone, she rose, shut the bedroom door, and crawled into her cold bed. She needed to get warm; she needed to decide if she could use this new information to change the bitter circumstances of her life. Perhaps Henry was not completely without feelings, as she had thought. Her eyelids drooped. Perhaps there was hope.

***

Lucy Bowman tested the temperature of a flatiron she’d set heating on the hearth. It hissed obligingly. Satisfied, she carried it to a small cloth-draped table in the corner of the kitchen and applied it to the frill of a cambric gown. She was good at fine ironing, and she liked being good at things. She also liked—these days—doing her work in the hours when most of the staff was elsewhere. This early, the cook and scullery maid had just begun to prepare breakfast. Barely out of bed, and sullen with it, they didn’t speak. Not that there ever was much conversation in this house—and none of it the easy back-and-forth of the servants’ hall in Hampshire.

The Rutherford manor had been a very heaven compared to this place. Everyone below stairs got along; they’d gone together to church fetes and dances and formed up a kind of family. For certain, the old housekeeper had been a second mother to her. When Lucy’d arrived, sent into service at twelve to save her parents a mouth to feed, Mrs. Beckham had welcomed her and looked after her. She’d been the first person ever to tell Lucy that she was smart and capable and had a chance to make something of herself. Thinking of her, and of that household, comforted and hurt at the same time.

Lucy eased the iron around an embroidered placket, enjoying the crisp scent of starched cloth rising in the steam. She’d made a place for herself in Hampshire, starting in the laundry and working her way up, learning all she could as fast as she could, with kindly training. She’d been so proud to be chosen as Miss Charlotte’s lady’s maid eight years ago. Mrs. Beckham had told her straight out, in front of the others, how well she’d done, called her an example for the younger staff. It had warmed her right down to her toes to see them smiling at her, glad for her advancement.

And now it was all gone. The house sold, the people she’d known retired or scattered to other positions, and none of them much for letters. Well, she wasn’t either, as far as that went. But she couldn’t even pretend she’d be back in that house, in the country, one day.

Not that she’d ever leave Miss Charlotte alone in this terrible place. Lucy put her head down and maneuvered the iron around a double frill.

Mr. Hines tromped in, heavy-eyed and growling for tea. A head on him, no doubt, from swilling his way through another evening. Cook’s husband, who called himself the butler, was really just a man of all work. Lucy had seen a proper butler, and that he was not. What he was was a raw-boned, tight-mouthed package of sheer meanness. Lucy stayed well out of his way. It was no wonder Cook was short-tempered, shackled to a bear like him. As for the young women on the staff who might have been her friends, both the scullery maid and the housemaid were slow-witted and spiritless. If you tried to talk to them—which she didn’t, not anymore—they mostly stared like they didn’t understand plain English. And if that wasn’t enough, the valet Holcombe took every chance to put a sneaky hand where it didn’t belong. Him, she outright despised. Every word he said to her was obviously supposed to mean something different. The ones she understood were disgusting. She’d spent some of her own wages on a bolt for her bedroom door because of him. Couldn’t ask Miss Charlotte for the money because she didn’t need another worry, did she?

The iron had cooled. She exchanged it for another that had been heating near the coals and deftly pressed the scalloped sleeve of a morning dress. The rising warmth on her face was welcome, though the kitchen was the most tolerable room in this cold house. She had to pile on blankets until she felt like a clothes press to sleep warm.

The scullery maid brushed past her on the way to the pantry. “Mort o’ trouble for a gown no one’ll see,” she said.

Lucy ignored her. Any remark the staff made to her was carping, about her work or her mistress, though they’d eased up on that when they saw they weren’t going to cause any trouble. But they baited and humiliated Miss Charlotte something terrible. It still shocked Lucy after all this time. She couldn’t quite give up expecting
him
—she refused to name the master of this house—to step in and stop them. But he was a pure devil; he seemed to enjoy it. Lucy liked to understand a problem and find a solution for it if she any way could, but there was nothing to be done about this pure disaster of a marriage.

Holcombe surged into the kitchen. He’d be after early morning tea for
him,
and nothing in the world more important, in his book. Lucy turned her back and concentrated on her ironing. “Have you seen Mr. Henry?” he asked. “Hines?”

“Why would I?” was the sullen reply from the man sitting at the kitchen table.

Holcombe stood frowning for a moment, then hurried out—without any tea. Which was strange, and interesting. Lucy eyed the others. They showed no signs of curiosity. As far as she’d been able to tell over the months, they didn’t have any.

The scent of porridge wafted from the hearth, and Lucy’s stomach growled. Mrs. Hines could make a decent porridge, at least. She wasn’t good at much else. On the other hand,
he
ordered such bland dishes that it was hardly worth any bother.

Holcombe popped back in. “Hines, come with me,” he said. The cook’s husband grumbled but pushed up from his chair and obeyed. This was one of the things that showed Hines wasn’t a real butler. He snapped to when the valet spoke in that particular tone and did as he was told. The two men left the kitchen, and they didn’t come back.

Something was up, Lucy thought.
He
next to worshipped his routines, threw a fit if any little detail was altered. Despite months of grinding frustration, she felt a shred of hope. Any difference had to be for the better, didn’t it? She took her finished ironing and headed upstairs to see what she could see before waking her mistress.