Summerset Abbey (38 page)

Slowly Duncan nodded. He had never been a match for either of his sisters and didn’t think he ever would be. And he knew he had no choice but to fulfill his social and familial obligations. “I’ll come back when I’ve spoken to Charles.”

“Thank you, dearest.” She kissed his cheek. “And since you’ll be dining in tonight, I’ll ask Mrs. Windsor if she’ll make apple fritters.”

“I’m not still in the nursery, Gen,” Duncan muttered. “I don’t have to be promised sweets as a consolation prize.”

“Nevertheless, you’d still enjoy them, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” he agreed reluctantly. “I was engaged with a party to go to . . .” He let the sentence fade. This was not going to be an evening when the Carstairses would be seen on the town. He left the salon, wishing his father were still alive.

Charles was at home in his spacious lodgings on Upper Brooke Street. He had a modest independence, sufficient to permit him to maintain a married household, although there was no denying that Imogen’s significant personal fortune would make for a luxurious lifestyle he couldn’t manage on his own resources. He was well aware of this discrepancy, and equally well aware of the whispers that always attended marriages where the fortunes were unequal and the balance was in the lady’s favor.

Since the Married Woman’s Property Acts, women did not automatically lose possession of their property on marriage as had always been the case hitherto. Legally, a married woman now had the same rights over her property, capital, and investments as a single woman, but there was still an unspoken assumption that the wife’s fortune became a joint asset to which a husband had the same rights as the wife. Imogen had her own views on how her fortune would enrich their lifestyle, and Charles, much less accustomed to wealth, had a more frugal view on the matter. It didn’t suit his pride to be dependent upon his wife, and as his own legal practice grew more lucrative, he could see the point at which his wife’s private means would no longer be necessary.

Imogen had simply shrugged the issue aside when he’d brought it up. If she had money, why shouldn’t she spend it to make their lives extra comfortable? He’d let it lie, better to choose his battles. Once they were married, it would be different.

Except that today the whole house of cards had collapsed.

He couldn’t believe his own stupidity. Only now, when he was about to lose her, did he realize just how much he loved Imogen. The full acknowledgment of love, such a gentle emotion, had somehow been lost within the power of their shared lust. Passion had ruled their times together, and he had been thrilled, delighted, overwhelmed at times by the sheer joy of having his desire met and matched by this wonderful woman, whose glorious body opened as readily to him as did her mind. She was as passionate in her opinions, in her temper, in her pleasures and her dislikes, and he adored her as much as she provoked him.

And somehow, now he was about to lose it all. Just because he had not summoned the courage to explain to Dorothea that their understanding had to come to an end. It was hard to admit his own cowardice, but it was as simple as that. Dorothea was so vulnerable, so sweet, so almost childlike in her dependence upon him, and after Jamie’s birth he had felt enchained by his obligations. It seemed a long time ago when he had seen her first, coming out of the milliner’s shop on Praed Street, her straw bonnet tipped at a saucy angle, her pale blue eyes wide and curious, her small, delicate frame perfectly attired in a demure high-necked lace blouse, a blue serge skirt, and matching jacket. But his eye had been drawn to the cracked leather boots on her narrow feet, and the little anxious frown between her delicate eyebrows.

She had stepped off the curb just as a landau driven by some young blood waving his whip and shouting exuberantly had barreled around the corner from Norfolk Place. Charles had grabbed her unceremoniously by the waist and lifted her bodily onto the curb. He had taken her to a tea shop for a restorative cup of tea and watched as she had devoured the sandwiches and toasted tea cakes with a ravenous appetite that belied her tiny frame. She had chatted with disarming frankness, revealing an innocence that he found immensely appealing. Despite the grim poverty of an existence as a poorly paid milliner’s apprentice, she displayed a zest for life that transcended its hardships.

At that time in his life Dorothea had fulfilled a need by filling a large and lonely space. He had never thought to abandon her, and financially, of course, he never would. And, Jamie . . . he had never expected to feel anything like the flood of emotion he had felt when he had first seen his son. The soft, vanilla-scented skin, the rounded limbs, the chubby wrists and thighs creased with plump rings of flesh. And so he had never summoned the emotional strength to tell Dorothea that their relationship must now be on a strictly business footing. She would deal with his lawyers; everything would be signed and sealed. She had the house in her name and a decent allowance to keep herself and Jamie in comfort. And when the time came, he would pay for his child’s schooling.

Oh, it was all so clear in his head what had to be done. And somehow he had not managed to do it. Cowardice . . . guilt . . . duty . . . he had no idea what had ruled his inertia. If he had stopped for one moment to see the situation through Imogen’s eyes, he would have made damn sure his relationship with Dorothea, apart from his financial commitment, was over as soon as he had realized his incredible, unbelievable luck in meeting the love of his life, a woman who met and matched him in love, in bed, in war. And he had thrown it all away because he hadn’t summoned the courage to call a halt to an emotional commitment that had never had a future.

He jerked from his self-castigating reverie at a knock at the door. His servant stuck his head around the door. “Gennelman to see you, sir. Lord Beaufort.”

“Show him in, Ned.” Charles rose from his chair as his visitor was shown into the parlor. Whatever hope he’d cherished that Imogen would rethink her determination once she had cooled off was now gone. There could be only one reason for the viscount’s visit. However, his expression as he greeted his visitor gave nothing away. “Duncan, how delightful. May I offer you sherry . . . or Madeira if you prefer?”

Duncan shook his head, stiffening his shoulders. “No . . . nothing, thank you, Mr. Riverdale.”

“Oh, dear,” Charles murmured. “Such formality. Your errand is an unpleasant one, obviously.” He turned to the sideboard and poured whiskey into two cut-glass tumblers. “I suspect we need something a little stronger than claret.” He handed his guest a glass. “So, your sister is adamant. The engagement is broken?”

Duncan took the glass with a grateful nod and an immediate gulp. “ ’Fraid so. I don’t know what megrim she has in her head, but she won’t be budged. I tried, believe me, I tried.”

“I’m sure you did, Duncan.” Charles took his own tumbler to the long window looking down on the street. He sipped slowly, as the cold reality of the truth seeped into his mind. There really was nothing more he could do to change the situation. Pleading was never his strong suit, but if he thought it would change Imogen’s mind he would swallow his pride. But it wouldn’t.

“Very well. I’ll send the notice for the morning’s papers. You’ll do the same?”

“Yes.” Duncan downed his whiskey in one last draught. “Gen says I must. I’m so sorry. If there was anything I could have done—”

Charles shook his head. “I know your sister probably better than you, Duncan. I’m sure there was nothing you could do.” He took another sip from his glass. “You’d better leave now, and take care of your own side of this fiasco.” He sounded harsher than he intended as he set down his tumbler with a snap.

Duncan paled, his fingers trembling as he put down his own glass. “I hope . . . I trust—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, boy, what kind of a man do you take me for? Of course your secret is safe with me. This has nothing whatsoever to do with however you conduct your own private life.” Charles regarded the younger man with a degree of annoyance. Duncan’s personal issues were trivial compared to the present debacle. “Go and do what you have to do.” He went to the door and opened it. “I’ll deal with my end of it.”

Duncan half bowed as he scurried down the stairs to street level, his face scarlet with embarrassment. He had always been intimidated by his prospective brother-in-law, and intimidation had become real terror of the man when Riverdale had walked in upon him that ghastly September afternoon in the conservatory at Beaufort Hall. Charles had taken in the scene in one swift glance and then simply turned and walked away. Duncan had tried once to bring up the subject, but the other man had cut him off with a dismissive gesture. Since then they had exchanged not a word on the subject and Duncan had started to relax in the belief that now that Riverdale was almost a member of the family, his secret was safe.

But now, with the engagement broken, and in such a scandalous fashion, there was nothing to keep Charles from spreading the story far and wide. Could his promise of secrecy be trusted?

Imogen was dressing for dinner when Esther knocked once and came into her bedroom without waiting for a response. “I’m sorry, Gen, but I couldn’t stop them.” She untied the ribbons of her plumed felt hat as she spoke. The shoulders of her fur-trimmed pelisse were damp and her brown hair, always curly, had corkscrewed.

“Couldn’t stop whom?” Imogen turned on her dresser stool. “Leave us for a few minutes, would you, Daisy?”

Her maid bobbed a curtsy and removed the hairpins from her mouth, where she was keeping them as she did Imogen’s coiffure. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll ring when I’m ready.” Imogen regarded her sister as the maid departed. “You look drained, Essie.”

“I am.” Esther tossed her hat and pelisse onto a tapestry bench against the wall. “And the long and the short of it is that the
family
are coming en masse to persuade you to change your mind. The scandal,” she said in a fair imitation of Aunt Martha, “will be more than the family can possibly countenance.”

“Oh, sweet heaven.” Imogen rested her head in her palms. “They’re coming
tonight
?”

Esther nodded. “I did what I could, darling, but they’re incensed . . . every single one of them.”

“It’s unfair of me to have asked you to break the news.” Imogen rose from her stool and went to her sister, putting her arms around her. “Are they coming before dinner?”

“Yes, any minute, although Uncle George said it would upset his digestion and ruin his own dinner.” Esther offered a weak smile. “Perhaps we should ask Mrs. Windsor to have some calf’s-foot jelly on hand.”

“I’ll tell Sharpton to put dinner back an hour.” Imogen sighed. “I wish we could just disappear to Beaufort Hall tonight, avoid the lot of them. If we weren’t here, there’d be nothing for the scandalmongers to get their teeth into.”

“We can’t go tonight, Gen.” Esther turned wearily to the door. “I’d better go and dress . . . and warn Duncan. A family altercation is not going to improve his shining hour either.” She paused, her hand on the door. “How did it go with Charles. Has Duncan said?”

“Not much. He just mumbled that the notices would be in the
Times
in the morning and disappeared upstairs to dress.”

Esther nodded. “We’ll just get through this evening, and then we can get out of town and leave the gossips to their own devices.”

Imogen nodded and rang for Daisy. “I’ll go down to the drawing room as soon as I’m ready. Don’t hurry down, Essie, this is my mess—there’s no reason you should be subjected to the bullying on my account. . . . Oh, Daisy . . .” She addressed the maid as she came back into the room. “I think I’ll wear the dove-gray crepe this evening. Suitably somber and penitential, don’t you think, Essie?”

Esther’s grimace was answer enough as she went off to her own room to change.

Five minutes later, Imogen was in the drawing room, sipping a glass of sherry and trying to calm her nerves. The dove-gray crepe, with its dark gray velvet puff sleeves and matching velvet edging the relatively modest neckline and outlining the flowing hemline, could almost pass as mourning, she reflected, looking at herself in the mirror above the long, marble-topped console table, making a small adjustment to a loosening hairpin. Whether the demure costume would mollify the irate family elders remained to be seen.