The Darcy Connection (20 page)

It wasn't Bartholomew Bruton returning, as she had half hoped, half feared. It was George Warren. Come out to take the air, no doubt, although it did not seem to her that he was a man to dwell on the beauties of nature, or on the charming tranquillity of this place.

He paced up and down, and she could see an air of expectancy about him. Suddenly Eliza knew why he was here. It was an assignation, he was waiting for someone. She felt all the awkwardness of her situation. How could she now declare her presence, how could she come out from behind her leafy hiding place and greet him without looking and feeling foolish?

More footsteps, lighter ones, and walking with less urgency than Mr. Warren. A woman's step. Oh, Lord, not a tryst! Miss Chetwynd? That horrid Miss Grainger?

To her deep astonishment, the young woman who came into the court was neither Miss Chetwynd nor Miss Grainger, but Charlotte! Eliza nearly let out an exclamation, she was so surprised, and had to clap her hand to her mouth to restrain herself. Charlotte! George Warren? Informality, the order of the day here at Montblaine House, was one thing, but Charlotte should not be here alone with Mr. Warren.

Charlotte was smiling at the man, with a warmth in her eyes that Eliza had never seen before. Charlotte could not be in love with Mr. Warren. The man was up to mischief; Eliza might be naïve, an ignorant provincial, but she knew a dangerous man when she saw one, and Mr. Warren was dangerous.

It seemed as though he were looking in her direction, and Eliza shrank back against the wall, holding her breath, hoping that the slight breeze rippling the leaves would not part the branches and reveal her presence.

All trace of embarrassment had left her. To be a witness to a meeting between a man and a woman with whom she was unconnected could be awkward, but what was going on here must concern her closely. Whatever did Charlotte think she was up to? Gingerly, Eliza parted a few leaves, to allow her a better view. Charlotte was standing by the marble bowl of the fountain, dabbling her hands in the water. Mr. Warren stood close behind her, and then, sliding a hand around Charlotte's slender waist, he drew her round and into his arms. For a moment Charlotte looked up at him, and Eliza's blood ran cold.

It frightened her, the voluptuous sigh with which Charlotte melted into Warren's embrace, the eagerness with which she responded to his ardent kisses, the ecstasy in every line of her body as she tilted her head back, to let Warren's lips glide over her neck, her breast.

She had to put a stop to it. She and Anthony had never—The passion here went beyond anything Eliza had experienced, and it was a passion, her dazed wits told her, that Warren was going to carry to what the country folk called its right true end. Now was the time to act, never mind the fury that would doubtless be turned on her. She braced herself to jump out, even as Warren's hands loosened the tie around the bosom of Charlotte's dress.

Before she could let out the cry of indignation that was in her throat, the great door to the court swung open, and there was Bartholomew. The couple hadn't noticed him, but he gave a cough and said in a loud voice, “Miss Collins, your aunt is searching for you. I saw you coming this way, and told her that I believed you were in the Fountain Court. Hark, I hear her now.”

Charlotte's face, always pale, was now chalky, as she tugged at the top of her dress. Warren, his face scarlet and suffused with rage, rounded on Bruton.

“What the devil do you think you're doing?”

“I could ask the same question of you,” said Bruton coolly. “To be seducing your uncle's guest, in his house—Miss Collins, what are you thinking of? Have you lost all sense of propriety, do you not know what you are about?”

They all heard the unmistakable click-clack of Lady Grandpoint's heels coming nearer. Charlotte looked wildly around her, and then, with a convulsive start, she hurled herself behind the self-same plant that had sheltered Eliza. Bumping into her sister, she would have let out a cry, but Eliza promptly put a hand over her sister's mouth and told her to be quiet. “It's only me, no, be still, for heaven's sake, or you are undone.”

Undone! A polite word for what had nearly happened to Charlotte. And here was Lady Grandpoint. “Good day, Mr. Warren, Mr. Bruton,” she said, her eyes sweeping round the court. “Pray, what are you doing here? You look flushed and het up, I hope you have not been quarrelling, Lord Montblaine would not be pleased if his guests were to be at outs with one another.”

Bartholomew Bruton forced a laugh. “No, ma'am, nothing more than a heated discussion. About politics,” he added, hoping that a detail would add verisimilitude to his story, for Warren was glaring at him with such undisguised loathing that it would take more than a difference of political opinion to explain his hostility. “It was the question of the Reform Bill, ma'am, a subject on which we both feel very strongly.”

“Oh, Reform! You had better take that up with Lord Grandpoint, his views on that subject are to be listened to, I believe, especially by men of your age, you have not the experience to understand the intricacies of politics. And you do not sit in the House, I believe, Mr. Warren. Nor you, Mr. Bruton. Of course, Mr. Warren will in due course succeed to his father's dignities and a seat in the Lords, although I imagine that it is a much better preparation for a young man to sit in the House of Commons rather than to go straight into the Lords. And you, Mr. Bruton, have you never thought of going into politics? I am sure with your mother's connections, and your father's influence”—she had been going to say wealth, but the severe look on Bartholomew's face made her think again—“a seat could be found for you.”

“Thank you, Lady Grandpoint, for your interest in my career, but I find that banking takes up all my time and energies.”

“Anyhow, I have not come here to talk of politics. I am looking for my goddaughter, Miss Collins, have you seen her? No? Perhaps she is with her sister, I have not seen Miss Eliza today.”

With sudden presence of mind, Bartholomew Bruton came out with a swift lie. “I think I saw Miss Collins a little while ago, now you mention it. In the Yew Walk. With her sister.”

“The Yew Walk? Very well, I shall go that way. And, Mr. Warren, your clothing is somewhat disarranged. You should tidy yourself up. Your uncle will not care to see you looking like that.”

So forceful was her personality that Warren's gaze dropped, and muttering what sounded suspiciously like a curse, he strode out of the court.

“Your arm, if you please, Mr. Bruton,” said Lady Grandpoint. “You may escort me to the place where you saw Miss Collins.”

Bartholomew had no choice but to oblige, and with heartfelt relief Eliza peeped out and confirmed that the court was, at last, empty.

Charlotte didn't hesitate; without a word, she fled through the door, more distraught than Eliza had ever seen her, leaving her staring after her sister, her mind in complete turmoil.

She sat down hard on the nearest bench, trying to sort out her impressions of the scene she had witnessed. A rape? Nothing of the kind, Charlotte was welcoming, encouraging Warren's lascivious advances, and she shuddered to think what further liberties Warren might have taken had he not been interrupted.

His behaviour did not surprise her, he was a rakish kind of man, far more so in reality than Lord Rosely, who had a reputation for being a rake. It was Charlotte, remote, controlled Charlotte, whose reaction had been so astonishing! Who could have suspected for a moment that she was capable of such physical passion, that she would respond with such ardour to a man's embraces?

“This is the devil of a fix,” exclaimed Mr. Bruton, coming back into the court, slightly out of breath.

He had ruthlessly handed over Lady Grandpoint to Miss Grainger, whom they met as they came out of the Great Hall. “Her ladyship wishes to go to the Yew Walk,” he said, with a wave of his hand in the direction of what he hoped might be the Yew Walk. He had no idea of its exact location, had merely heard it mentioned by one of the other gentlemen at breakfast. Freed of her ladyship, he had hurried back to the Fountain Court.

“Where is your sister? Were you here all that time, while—?”

“Yes,” Eliza said bluntly. “I hid behind that jasmine, like a character in a play, and watched a villainous man make advances upon a hapless maiden.”

“Hapless? It appeared to me—”

“I know just how it appeared to you, and I beg that you will say no more about it, now or later.”

“I told you I am discreet, Eliza, and I would not betray your sister for the world—but by God, what is she up to? Has she taken leave of her senses?”

“I can only conclude that she has fallen in love with Warren.”

“Love! Well, that's a word for it, only your sister was venturing upon the wilder shores of love in this case. She should not do so, she should be more circumspect. Warren has a devilish bad reputation.”

“I am sure that he has preyed on Charlotte's feelings, and that his intention was to ruin her.”

“Ah,” said Bartholomew. “Thus preventing any chance of his uncle marrying her.”

“As to that, I do not care about it, I do not wish Charlotte to marry Lord Montblaine, they would not suit.”

“Until I witnessed this incident today, I would have said they suited one another very well, two people with marble running in their veins. As to what passion the marquis might be capable of, I can't say, but your sister! Well, she surprised me.”

“Surprised you? She has astonished me. What is to be done? Should I tell Lady Grandpoint? We should leave the house at once, she should not stay under the same roof as Warren.”

“Tell Lady Grandpoint? On no account, that would be a disastrous move. In such cases as this, the fewer people who know what is going on, the better. What puzzles me is Warren's thinking. How can he benefit from seducing your sister? Does he intend to marry her? I doubt it, he, of all men, would never marry without personal gain, that is, he will want to marry a woman with a fortune.”

“If any such could be persuaded to accept him.”

“Women find him attractive, although he does have a bad reputation.”

“I do not find him attractive in the least, and I cannot think why Charlotte, why my sister—”

“That is because it is not a question of thinking.”

The colour had flown to her cheeks. “Ah,” he said drily. “You do have a notion of what was happening there.”

Stolen kisses with a young man in Yorkshire? Or warmer embraces in the secluded nooks and crannies of summer gardens, or those places off the ballroom, which experienced men and women could always find? A wave of jealousy surged through him, horrifying him by its intensity.

Because he had such strong feelings for her, and had imagined that she returned them, why should he assume that her heart was untouched, that she had not enjoyed at least some of the pleasures of love?

Were the two sisters not at all what they seemed, were they young women with the faces and manners of virtue and purity, hiding their likeness under the skin to the light-skirted women of the demimonde? He had known plenty of women like that, women whose virtue was simply another commodity to be exploited in the most favourable way.

Then he looked at Eliza, and his heart melted. So, she had been in love. How could such a lively, warm person not have fallen in love? Puppy love, the innocent tumbling into adoration and stolen kisses that was part of growing up, even for the most sheltered girls. For some, it was the drawing master at boarding school, for others a brother's friend, a neighbour; how could the round of courtship and launching on to the marriage market not have flirtations and experiments along the way?

Yet society was unforgiving to young women who strayed more than a few inches from the path of strict and apparent virtue. And Charlotte was heading for a precipice. Charlotte was what concerned Eliza now; she was deeply troubled, and he must find a way to help her.

“Surely,” Eliza was saying, “if Warren ruins Charlotte, then his uncle—if he feels any affection for Charlotte, which I doubt—will be angry with Warren. Can he disinherit him?”

“No. Warren's father, Lord Warren, is the heir presumptive to the Montblaine title, and nothing can alter that. With the title go the landed estates and great wealth; those are inseparable from the title. The marquis does also have a large personal fortune, and, yes, he could choose to leave that elsewhere.”

“Surely George Warren stands to lose more by his uncle marrying and having an heir than by displeasing him.”

“It is odd, this affair of Montblaine and your sister. Since he was widowed, a good many years ago, he has existed as far as one knows without female company. He has no regular mistress, does not take those trips to Paris which men—”

“You travel to Paris frequently, do not you?”

He smiled at her. “You are a minx. I go to Paris on banking business, which is, let me tell you, quite a different thing. Let us keep this conversation to the subject of the marquis and your sister, and Warren, and what is to be done. Your sister knows that you saw her with Warren. You must go to her, talk to her, make her see that whatever her feelings for Warren, she is treading on treacherous ground.”