My Lord Murderer (21 page)

Gwen regarded him in confusion. His laughter had been in some way humiliating to her. She felt that he’d made her seem ridiculous, that somehow he’d turned her carefully-thought-out scruples into farce. She rose and put her head up proudly. “I did not say you’re a beast,” she said haughtily. “And I don’t see what has made you so amused.”

“I was amused, ma’am, because you thought I wished to defend myself to you, and my wishes are in reality quite different. So very, very different that I suddenly realized how ludicrous they were.”

Some instinct told her she should not ask, but she couldn’t resist. “And what were they, these
wishes
of yours?”

“Do you really want to know?” he asked, taking her by the arms and pulling her to her feet. “I wished … that you could love me so much … so much that even if I came to you with hands dripping with blood you would believe me innocent, and run to me and take my bloodstained hands to your face … like this … and offer your lips for me to kiss…” And putting his hands lightly against her cheeks, he tilted her face up to his and kissed her softly.

As if in a dream, she stood immobile, her eyes closed, her lips pressed lightly on his. But a few heartbroken tears dripped from beneath her lids, and when he felt them he let her go. She walked to where he had tossed her bonnet and stooped to pick it up. Then she turned to him. “You ask too much of me, Drew,” she said sadly.

“I know.”

“You will respect
my
wishes, then?”

He bowed a low, mocking bow. “Your servant, ma’am. In future, you and yours shall see nothing whatever of me. You may be assured of that.”

Chapter Twelve

G
WEN HAD MADE HER BED
, and everyone seemed to be conspiring to ensure that she lie in it. No one in the household ever mentioned Drew’s name. Tom’s anger at being forced to keep away from his idol smoldered in his eyes every time he looked at his sister, but he never discussed the subject. Lady Hazel avoided Drew’s name with a sympathetic delicacy which Gwen found every bit as irritating as Tom’s sullen silences. The strain of sidestepping the subject that lay in the foreground of everyone’s thoughts made other conversation awkward and forced, leaving Gwen feeling like a stranger in her own home. And for this, she honestly admitted to herself, she had no one else to blame.

To make matters worse, she found herself listening for the door knocker. Every time she heard it, her heart stopped, and she felt the blood leave her face. She knew she was being utterly ridiculous, but some secret part of her seemed to expect Drew to break down her door and carry her off like Lochinvar—the character in
Marmion
, a book of poems by Mr. Scott which had recently been published and had taken the
ton
by storm. But, unlike the romantic Lochinvar, Drew did not come. The only time she heard his name mentioned was one afternoon early in January. The day had been unexpectedly mild, and she had decided to take her horse for a canter in the park. She had no sooner set out when she was seen by Sir Lambert, who begged so insistently that he be permitted to stroll with her that she dismounted and walked along with him for a while. Among the juicy tidbits of gossip he fed into her ear was the information that Lord Jamison had been seen squiring Trixie Calisher about town on at least two occasions, and that Trixie’s mother was said to be in transports.

This news interested her not at all, she told herself repeatedly. But her attitude toward George Pollard seemed to change after she’d heard it. She became warmer to him, more eager to be seen with him in public, more flirtatious in private. It was as if she had to prove to herself that her life was full and happy. It wasn’t long before Sir George became confident that her heart was his, and he decided that the time had come to put the final phase of his plan into action. She had only to agree to go away with him. One night alone with her was all he needed. Once a woman was compromised, she was more ready to accept a
carte blanche
. He had succeeded at that game before.

Returning one evening from a concert at St. Peter’s, their heads ringing with Handel’s music, Gwen and George sat side by side in George’s new carriage. Suddenly, he grasped her hand dramatically. “I can bear it no longer,” he said in a voice that quivered with emotion. “You must marry me!”

“George!” Gwen said, startled.

“I know I don’t deserve you. I know that everything you’ve heard said of me is true—I’m a gambler, a profligate, a ne’er-do-well. But not when I’m with you. Never with you. With you I am truly a better man. You’ve made a new man of me! And my prospects have improved, too. I’ve learned only recently that I shall inherit a large fortune one day soon. If only you’d consent to my plan … we could be so happy…”

The words, spilled out so incoherently, were bewildering to Gwen. She was staggered by the passion in his voice and flattered by his sentiments. But she knew quite well that she did not want to marry George Pollard. “Please, George,” she began, holding out her free hand in remonstrance, “I don’t—”

“No, wait, love. Let me explain. I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking about this. My income, as you know, is not great, but lately I’ve made an accounting of my assets and have discovered that I might manage with a wife in tolerable comfort. In addition, I’ve learned that an uncle of mine has named me his heir. He is known to be quite wealthy and is old and infirm. Of course, I could not wish for his end for selfish reasons—I pray he lives as long a life as God wills. But he is a bachelor and, for some eccentric reason, wants me to remain a bachelor, too. As much as I would want to remain in his good graces, I can no longer acquiesce to such a ridiculous demand. I can no longer bear to be without you. I know it is an extraordinary request to make of you, my dear, but could you consider a secret marriage? We could go to Gretna—”

“George, I can’t consider marriage at all. Not yet.”

“You are thinking of Rowle, aren’t you? Gwen darling, you must not. You are too vital, too alive to hide yourself away from life. And I need you so! We mustn’t let these years go by, you and I.”

Gwen tried to withdraw her hand from his clasp. “Forgive me, George, but I cannot—”

He refused to release her. He pretended not to understand why she withdrew. “If it is convention which prevents you, I beg you not to consider what wagging tongues might say. Besides, our marriage can be secret for as long as you wish. We would have each other’s love without offending either my uncle or the
ton
of London. Please, Gwen,” he pleaded, taking her hand to his lips and kissing her fingers fervently.

Without wishing to hurt him, Gwen felt that she must end this scene. He was a pleasing companion, but she was not ready for marriage. She must make him understand. “George, it is impossible,” she said firmly, pulling her hand from his grasp.

“But why?” he asked. “Does the idea of a secret marriage offend you?”

“No, it is not that. It is more essential than that.”

George knew what she wanted to say, but he knew that he must not let her say it. If she didn’t actually love him, he must make her wonder about her feelings. He must somehow keep her in doubt. His time was running out. If he were to convince her to run off with him, he must at the very least keep her confused. If ever his famous ‘address’ could aid him, he hoped it would do so now. Assuming a look of passionate agony, he grasped her in his arms. “Gwen, my darling,” he whispered urgently, “what is more essential than the feelings we have for each other? I love you to the point of desperation. I need you more than I can say. And you care for me, I know. I’ve seen it in your eyes when you’ve laughed with me when no one else in the room understood. I’ve felt it in your hand when your fingers trembled at my touch. My beautiful, my lovely girl, don’t … don’t say that you don’t care for me!”

Few women would be immune to so passionate an appeal, and Gwen—feeling lonely and a stranger in her own home—was particularly vulnerable. Breathless and confused by his outburst, she wavered in her resistance. Feeling her weaken in his arms, he drew her close. He was artful in the handling of women. He did not attempt to kiss her but let her head rest on his chest, merely putting his cheek gently against her hair. “Oh, George,” she sighed, “I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Just say yes, my darling,” he said into her hair.

She lifted her head. “No, I can’t do that. I’m too confused to think at this moment. Let me go, George, please.”

George gritted his teeth. She was damnably hard to land. “Very well, my dear,” he said, allowing his voice to reveal a deep hurt. “I won’t press you. Only promise that you’ll think about what I’ve asked. Only think about it.”

Relieved, Gwen nodded in agreement. “I will,” she said.

He took her hand again. “I know you’ll say yes to me. Too much has passed between us. Say that you’ll come to me—to tell me—the moment you realize that you want me as I want you…” And he pressed a kiss into her palm.

Gwen went to bed that night with much to think about. Bruised and lonely, she had felt a wave of satisfaction to learn that there was a man who loved and needed her. He was a man who, like Edward, had succumbed to the indulgences of the times—the gambling, the drinking, the waste of youth and health. Perhaps with him she could accomplish what she had not been able to accomplish with Edward Rowle. Perhaps she could make a good and useful man of George. Was it fate stepping in to give her a second chance?

On the other hand, she knew that she could never love Pollard. She knew now the true meaning of love. And though she had had to lock it up inside her, she had to admit it was there. Was it possible to be a good wife to one man while secretly loving another? She had married once without love, and the marriage had failed. Could she bear taking a chance on another failure?

The questions repeated themselves over and over in her mind until at last she fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed that George Pollard was beckoning to her from across a wide field. As she ran toward him, her feet heavy and slow as they always are in dreams, he held his arms out to her in mute appeal. With great effort she ran faster, but as she came closer, the face became Drew’s, and the hands he held out to her were covered with blood.

The next morning, she climbed out of bed and examined herself in her mirror. Her eyes were shadowed and her mouth seemed to have hardened into what could become a perpetual frown. “Enough of this,” she told the mirror severely. “You spend too much time in this fruitless soul-searching. Hazel was right. You think too much about yourself. Get busy and think about other things. You needn’t marry anyone yet. Or ever.” And as soon as she said it, she felt much better.

Wys had quite given up hope of seeing his young lady drive up Jermyn Street, but he had grown accustomed to walking along that busy thoroughfare every day at noon. In the few weeks of his vigil, his brown greatcoat and tall hat had become a familiar sight to the regular vendors who passed by. They had taken to greeting him, passing the time of day, and making him feel quite at home. Even the noises had lost their ability to irritate him. He almost enjoyed his daily stroll now. At first, the sound of a carriage would fill him with hope which was promptly dashed, and the melancholy that resulted would be enough to cut up his day. Now, however, he glanced at the passing carriages almost out of habit—the hope of seeing the lady again flickered only faintly—and his naturally cheerful disposition was not adversely affected in any great measure.

Thus it was that he almost missed recognizing the young lady when at last her carriage passed him by. The glimpse of a rose-colored pelisse shocked him into action, and he ran down the street shouting, “Ho there! Stop!” His friends took up the cry, one of the vendors going so far as to catch hold of the reins as the horses trotted by.

“What’s amiss there?” asked the irritated coachman, pulling the horses to a halt.

“Nothing’s … amiss,” Wys said breathlessly as he caught up with the carriage. “I merely recognized your passenger as an old acquaintance.” He gave a coin to the vendor who had so promptly assisted him and then turned to face the girl who had lowered the window in consternation.

“Good day, ma’am,” he said, lowering his voice in an urgent whisper. “Do you remember me?”

The girl gave him a delighted smile. “Of course I remember. I could never forget your kindness to me.”

Wys sighed in relief. “I’ve looked for you all over London. I never dreamed I’d find you after all this ti—”

“Beggin’ y’r pardon, guv’nor,” the driver interrupted, “but I can’t keep the ’orses standin’ like this in the middle o’ the street!”

Desperately, Wys looked around to find some way to delay the hack. He had dreamed of finding the girl in just this way, but the impracticalities of stopping the hack in the middle of a busy street had not occurred to him in his reveries. “Are you in a great hurry, ma’am?” he asked. “I hope I am not keeping you from an urgent engagement.”

“Oh, no,” she assured him earnestly.

“This is most presumptuous of me, but may I ride with you a little way? I want so much to talk to you.”

She smiled and nodded, and Wys jumped into the carriage promptly. He stuck his head out the window, told the driver to ride on and sat back in relief. Then he turned and looked at the girl beside him. She was as lovely as he remembered, her eyes regarding him with the same direct and honest gaze he had described to Drew, her lips smiling at him with the same sweetness. He shook his head, staring at her as if she had materialized from the air. “I can’t believe my incredible luck!” he said, half to himself.

The young lady, not knowing how to respond to this, merely looked down at her hands. After a moment, she looked up shyly. “Did you say you had been looking for me, sir?”

“Yes. Every day! I kept hoping you’d pass this way again, so I’ve been haunting Jermyn Street for the past three weeks. Do you come this way often?”

“Oh, yes, quite often. I return this way after visiting my maternal grandmother. I go to see her every week.”

“Every week? How is it I’ve missed you, then? I’ve peered into every hired hack that passes at this hour.”