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Authors: Mary J. Putney

BOOK: The Bargain
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Chapter 31
W
ithin the hour, they were ready to leave. Jocelyn took a last survey of the room. Though she had been here only a brief time, the knowledge that she would never return made her profoundly sad.
Her musings were interrupted by Marie. “Lady Jocelyn, about Hugh Morgan.”
Jocelyn turned and saw anxiety on the maid's face. “Yes?”
“Does Hugh work for you, or for Lord Presteyne?”
“Oh. I hadn't thought of that.” She frowned. Though she paid the young man's salary, he was David's personal servant. “Ask him to come here.”
When Marie returned with her sweetheart, Jocelyn said, “Morgan, since you are Lord Presteyne's valet, it seems appropriate for you to continue in his service. He has been very pleased with your work, and I imagine he will wish to retain you.”
She pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to guess how David would react to her departure. “If Lord Presteyne decides to dismiss you because of your . . . your past association with me, you may return to my household. The same is true for your brother, Rhys, if he prefers to work for me rather than here at Westholme.”
Hugh stared at Jocelyn, his open face agonized. “Lady Jocelyn, has his lordship hurt you in some way? If he has . . .”
He looked so protective that Jocelyn had to swallow a lump in her throat before she could reply. “On the contrary, it is I who have injured him.”
Face set, she walked from the room, leaving Marie and Hugh staring after her.
The Welshman asked, “What has happened, lass? Her ladyship looks like the devil himself has walked on her grave.”
“I don't know,” Marie said miserably. “Yesterday she and his lordship were smelling of April and May, then this morning she was crying fit to break your heart, and we must leave immediately.”
Hugh enveloped her in his embrace. “Good-bye, sweetheart. If I know Lord Presteyne, we'll be following you to London as soon as he gets home.”
“I don't want to leave you,” Marie cried, tears bright in her eyes. “Let me stay, or you come with us to London. You can be milady's footman again.”
“Nay, lass, you saw her face. For now, my lady needs you, and I think my lord will be needing me.” He kissed her hard, already missing her. “We'll be together again soon, I swear it.”
With an agonized last glance over her shoulder, Marie took her mistress's jewel case and left the room. Hugh found a window where he could watch the two women climb into the waiting carriage, assisted by the unhappy butler.
And then they were gone.
It was late afternoon when David returned home, impatiently pushing the front door open without waiting for a servant. As he entered the hall, Stretton approached, expression lugubrious. David removed his hat and flipped it to the butler. “Where is Lady Presteyne? In the attics again?”
Looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else, Stretton replied, “Her ladyship left for London this morning, my lord.”
Uncomprehending, David repeated, “She left?”
“Yes, my lord.”
She must have received an urgent message from a relative. A life or death matter. Yet a premonition of disaster was already knotting his belly when he said, “I presume she left a letter for me?”
“Yes, my lord.” The butler handed him a sealed note.
He ripped it open and read:
David—I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you. It is best we not see each other again. Jocelyn.
The words struck with the impact of musket balls. He reread the note twice, trying to make sense of it, but there was nothing more to be learned. There was . . . nothing.
He shoved past the butler and climbed the stairs three at a time. Surely this must be some bizarre joke.
Throwing open the door to her chamber, he saw that it had been stripped of all traces of its recent occupant. The elegant clutter of perfumes and brushes was gone from the dressing table, leaving only a lingering scent of jasmine.
Disbelievingly he touched the bare mattress, as if to find some warmth left from the night before, but there was no remnant of the joy they had shared. The joy he
thought
they had shared.
He scanned the room. The only sign of occupancy was a crumpled ball of paper in the cold fireplace. He picked it up, hoping it might be a preliminary good-bye note that would say more than the one she had left with Stretton.
He almost discarded the letter when he saw that it wasn't in her hand, then read through when he saw it was from Lady Cromarty.
Damnation.
What did it mean that the countess was threatening Jocelyn?
Ice formed in the pit of his belly and spread through his body as different possibilities flashed through his mind. Had Jocelyn decided that she didn't want the annulment after all, since it would make her vulnerable to her aunt's extortion? Freeing herself of her virginity may have been done to undercut Lady Cromarty's case.
Or—God help him—she might have decided that she was ready to go to her duke and didn't want to do so as a virgin. Who better to relieve her of an unwanted maidenhead than a willing, temporary husband? He had cooperated with alacrity. She had been an apt pupil, and could now offer herself as a woman of the world.
Yet it was hard to reconcile such cold-bloodedness with his image of Jocelyn, her warmth and honesty. Had she thought he would gladly bed her for the moment's pleasure, with no emotions involved, then been dismayed by his declaration of love?
Perhaps he had been wrong to think there was warmth and vulnerability beneath her ladyship's highly polished exterior. She had grown up in a different world than his, where lords and ladies behaved in ways incomprehensible to common people.
He crushed the letter in his hand. Traditionally men were blamed for using and abandoning women, while in this case the reverse appeared to be true. It was an irony he didn't appreciate.
His thoughts ground to a halt when he realized that he had no idea if he was making sense. The only incontestable facts were the note saying she didn't want to see him again, and the letter from her aunt that turned an act of love into a handful of ashes.
He was staring blindly out the window when Morgan entered the room and said hesitantly, “My lord, I want to talk to you about Lady Jocelyn.”
“There isn't much to talk about.” David swallowed, struggling to put a calm public face on what had happened. “It was . . . kind of her to come and help organize my household here.”
Refusing to accept dismissal, Morgan said, “Marie told me that this morning her ladyship was crying as if her heart would break. When I asked my lady if you had wronged her, she said that on the contrary, she had injured you.”
Seeing his master's expression, Hugh flushed. “I meant no disloyalty to you, my lord, but she will always have my first allegiance, for what she did for my brother.”
Reminded of Rhys, David wondered if a woman who had rescued a depressed, crippled soldier purely from the kindness of her heart could really be a callous seducer. Frowning, he tried to fit this new data with the other facts of Jocelyn's departure. She hadn't been distraught the night before, he was willing to swear to that. Unless she could lie with both words and body, she had come to him from desire, and experienced rapturous pleasure.
Might she be angry with him for consummating their marriage? Too much champagne might have clouded her judgment and left her blaming him for what had happened. Which would be damned unfair considering how often he'd asked her if she was sure, and in his experience his wife had always been fair.
Speculation was useless, he realized; Jocelyn's behavior was unlikely to be caused by anything obvious. Despite her calm, apparently confident exterior, he had known that she was wary of the very concept of love. Somewhere deep inside her she carried scars that had been broken open by the vulnerability of passion and his declaration of love.
His confused thoughts were interrupted by Hugh's determined voice. “Marie says Lady Jocelyn is in love with you. Everyone in the house could see it.”
In love with him? David's paralysis broke. He must have been mad to consider abiding by Jocelyn's brief, senseless note. The only way he would let her go was if she would look him in the eye and swear she didn't want him.
Striding to the door, he ordered, “Throw a few of my things in a bag. I'm leaving for London immediately.”
“I'll go, too, my lord,” the valet said with determination. “I promised Marie I would come to her as soon as I could.”
Envious of a relationship that was so much more straightforward than his own misbegotten marriage, David said, “Then we shall have to bring both of them home.”
Chapter 32
J
ocelyn returned to London as fast as a good coach and hired horses could take her. Throughout the long journey, she studied the gold wedding ring David had placed on her hand, and bleakly thought about her past. Many men had claimed to love her, and she had easily dismissed their declarations as youthful infatuation or fortune hunting.
Yet David had been able to reduce her to cinders with a handful of words. He had insinuated himself into her life with his courage and kindness and laughter. Thinking that another woman had his heart, she had allowed herself to come too close, and now she was paying the price.
They reached London late in the afternoon of the second day. By then, Jocelyn was exhausted by the thoughts that jolted around her head in rhythm with the pounding hooves of the horses. One bitter conclusion was unavoidable: the pain of the present was rooted in the unbearable past that she had always refused to acknowledge.
The time had come to face that past, no matter what it cost her. She might be flawed beyond redemption, but she should not be a coward as well. Tonight she would sleep in London, and tomorrow she would go on to Kent to find Lady Laura, the only person who could answer her questions.
As she entered the foyer of her home, she scanned the familiar grandeur. Grand, but so incredibly empty. What was one lone woman doing with so much space?
Carrying the jewel case, Marie started up the staircase. Her silent sympathy had made her a welcome companion on the long journey from Hereford. Would she stay with Jocelyn, or return to Westholme to be with her sweetheart, leaving her mistress even more alone?
Feeling unequal to the two flights of stairs, Jocelyn entered the salon, wearily stripping off her gloves. She rang for tea and was sipping a cup and waiting for it to invigorate her when the door opened.
In stepped Lady Laura, strikingly attractive in a modish blue evening gown. “What a nice surprise to have you back, my dear!” she said warmly. “Where is David?”
Jocelyn rose and gave her aunt a heartfelt hug. “I'm so glad you're here,” she said, her voice choked with incipient tears. “I was going to travel down to Kennington tomorrow to see you. Is Uncle Andrew in London also?”
“Yes, he had business at the Horse Guards. We are to meet later at a dinner party.” Eyes worried, Lady Laura guided her niece to the sofa so they could sit down together. “What's wrong, darling? You look like death in the afternoon.”
Jocelyn sat back on the sofa and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “It's . . . complicated. Do you have time to talk before going out?”
“You know that I always have time for you,” said her aunt, looking even more worried. “What do you wish to discuss?”
Where to start? With the horrible mess she had made of her own and David's lives? Or earlier, to the tragedy that had warped her life beyond repair?
Face rigid, she said, “Tell me about my mother.”
“You've always refused to talk about Cleo,” Laura said, startled. “Why do you ask now?”
“Because I must understand,” Jocelyn answered harshly. “What kind of person was she? Why did my father divorce her? Was she as great a whore as everyone says?”
“My dear girl, who ever told you that?” her aunt exclaimed, expression horrified.
“Everyone! Do you remember the caricatures we saw in that print shop window?”
The older woman winced. “I didn't realize you were old enough to understand what the pictures and comments meant.”
Lady Laura couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty when that episode had occurred, Jocelyn realized. She must have been as upset as her niece. More, perhaps, because she had to face vicious gossip in the salons and ballrooms of London every day. No wonder she had been eager to follow the drum with Andrew Kirkpatrick.
“That day was hardly the only time.” Jocelyn's mouth twisted. “Servants called her a harlot when they thought I couldn't hear. So did the well-bred young ladies at that exclusive seminary in Bath my father sent me to, the one I ran away from. Then there was the noble lord who tried seducing me at his own daughter's come-out ball because he assumed I was no better than I should be. ‘Like mother, like daughter,' he said just before he shoved his tongue in my mouth.”
“Dear God, why did you never tell me? Or your father?” Laura looked ill. “You always seemed so . . . so unconcerned. You were only four when your mother left, and you didn't seem to miss her. If you ever asked what happened to her, I never heard of it. ”
“Of course I didn't ask!” Jocelyn began to tremble. “Even a small child knows what subjects are forbidden.”
“Cleo was headstrong and she made some terrible mistakes, but she was no harlot,” Laura said emphatically. “She and your father had a whirlwind courtship and married within weeks of their meeting. When the first flames of passion burned out, they discovered they really had very little in common.”
She shook her head sorrowfully. “They could have lived separate lives, like many fashionable people do, but each wanted the other to . . . to fulfill their dreams. Be a perfect lover. They could not accept each other as they were. The fights were extraordinary. They fought in public, they fought in private. There was some twisted kind of love between them that came out as anger and hatred. You don't remember any of this?”
“Oh, yes,” Jocelyn said, her voice a bare whisper. “I remember.” She squeezed her eyes shut as her father's remembered shout sliced through her brain.
“You're a woman, which means you're a greedy liar and a whore. God damn the hour I met you!”
Her mother had responded with rage and smashed china, cursing her husband for his cruelty and faithlessness. Jocelyn had huddled unnoticed in a corner of the huge Charlton drawing room, riveted at the sight of her parents' fury, too terrified to run away. The fight, and others, were seared into her soul.
She pressed a hand to her midriff, trying to ease the pain that had been there for a lifetime. “My memories are patchy. Tell me what happened as you remember it.”
Laura bit her lip. “By the time I made my come-out, your parents had reached the point of doing their utmost to hurt each other. Your father took one of the most notorious courtesans in London as his mistress, which was bad enough. The final explosion came when he dared flaunt her at one of Cleo's balls, in this very house.
“I was chatting with Cleo when Edward brought his mistress into the ballroom. Cleo turned dead white. She was an expert shot, and I think that if she'd had a pistol, she would have put a bullet through his heart. Instead, after a blazing row in front of half of fashionable London, she left the ball with Baron von Rothenburg, a Prussian diplomat who had been pursuing her.
“Cleo and Rothenburg began a flamboyant affair that gave your father an abundance of evidence for a divorce. She never set foot in this house after the night of the ball. Your father refused to allow her back inside, even to collect her personal belongings. He had everything packed and delivered to Rothenburg's, along with a challenge to a duel. Edward wasn't wounded, but Rothenburg took a bullet in the lungs that contributed to his death five years later.”
Jocelyn rubbed her aching temples. “Dear God, how many lives did that woman destroy?”
“You mustn't blame your mother for the divorce. It was every bit as much your father's fault. Perhaps more so,” her aunt said bleakly. “I loved both Cleo and Edward, but they were bound together in some catastrophic fashion that brought out the worst in both of them.”
“So she ran off with another man,” Jocelyn said with dripping scorn. “What a wonderfully moral solution to her problems.”
“Cleo was no lightskirt. She would never have taken a lover if your father hadn't driven her to it. She came to love Rothenburg, but he was a Catholic and his family wouldn't countenance a divorced woman. Though he would have married her anyhow, she didn't want him to become estranged from his family, so she stayed with him as his mistress until his death.”
Fighting a reluctant trace of admiration for her mother's refusal to ruin her lover's relationship with his family, Jocelyn asked, “How did she die?”
“The day after Rothenburg's funeral, she took his stallion out riding and . . . and tried to jump a gully that was too wide. Both she and the horse were killed.” Laura closed her eyes, pain on her face. “Please don't think too ill of her, Jocelyn. She might not have loved wisely, but she had a good heart, and she gave it generously.”
So that was the full story of the noble, beautiful, passionate Cleo, Countess of Cromarty. The anguish that had lived with Jocelyn since she was a child erupted in excruciating waves. Leaping from the sofa, she paced across the room, her hands tearing frantically at each other. Barely able to speak, she cried out in a voice of raw agony, “If she was so wonderful, then what was wrong with me?”
She spun around to face her aunt, tears pouring from her eyes. “What was so horribly, damnably wrong with me, that my own mother could abandon me without a single word? Without a shred of remorse or regret?”
She tried to say more, but couldn't. Joint by joint, she folded to her knees and crumpled into a crouch, arms clutching herself in a frantic attempt to staunch the primal wound that ravaged her spirit. “What did I do wrong?” she gasped, feeling as if she was being torn in half.
“What did I do wrong?”
“Dear God in heaven!” Laura exclaimed, her voice shaking. An instant later, she dropped on the floor beside Jocelyn and enfolded her in her arms, rocking her as if she was an infant. “My darling girl, is that what you have believed all these years? Why didn't you ever ask me? I could have told you the truth.”
“I knew the truth.” Jocelyn's mouth twisted. “That my mother was a whore, and that she left me without a single backward glance.”
“That's
not
how it happened! Cleo tried desperately to get custody of you. Once she rode out to Charlton to see you when she thought Edward was in London, but he was home, and he threatened her with a horsewhip. He said he'd kill her if she ever tried to come near you again.
“She tried to convince him that since you could not inherit the title, you should be with her. When he refused, she dropped down on her knees and begged him to let her see you, but he wouldn't allow it.” Laura began to cry. “I was horrified, but it wasn't until I had children of my own that I recognized the full depths of what she was suffering.”
“It sounds to me as if my father discovered that I was most useful as a weapon to punish his hated wife,” Jocelyn said bitterly. “And maybe she wanted me for the same reason—to hurt him. I was the pawn between the feuding king and queen.”
“Don't confuse Edward's fury with Cleo with his genuine love for you,” Laura said. “He told me later that he was terrified that she would steal you away to the Continent with Rothenburg, and he was right to fear that. In a divorce, a woman has no rights at all. Cleo was branded an adulteress in the eyes of the world, and the law wouldn't raise a hand to help her. If she could have abducted you, I'm sure she would have. For the next five years, until Cleo died, your father made sure there was always a footman or other servant he trusted to guard you.”
“Did he discharge my nurse, Gilly, because he feared she was loyal to my mother rather than him?”
Laura sighed. “I'm afraid so. I told him it would be cruel to both you and Gilly, but he was afraid she might take you to your mother. Perhaps she would have. The servants adored Cleo. You are like her in many ways.”
Losing warm, nurturing Gilly had been like losing her mother for a second time. Then Aunt Laura had been lost to marriage. By the time Jocelyn was five, she had known that to love someone was to lose them.
Wondering at her aunt's knowledge, she asked, “How did you learn so much about my mother's thoughts and feelings?”
“She had become my sister, and I couldn't bear to lose her. We corresponded until Cleo died. I sent her drawings you had made, told her how you grew. After I married and left Charlton, I had the housekeeper write me about how you were so I could pass on the information to your mother. Cleo would ask if you ever talked about her, but you never said a word,” Laura said softly. “I could not bear to add to her unhappiness, so I lied and said that you spoke of her often.”
“I thought of her all the time, but I was afraid to ask,” Jocelyn whispered.
Laura stroked her head gently. “Why were you afraid?”
Jocelyn squeezed her eyes shut, trying to make sense of this new view of the world. “I think that . . . that I believed that if I ever asked about her, Papa would send me away, too.”
“He would
never
have done anything like that.” Laura hugged her. “He loved you more than anyone or anything else in his life. Since you never asked about your mother and seemed content, he decided it would be better for you if he never raised the subject. He was grateful because he thought you had escaped unscathed.”

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