The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (15 page)

*~*~*

Chapter Twelve

“
A scandal is like a wolf that has been too long
without a meal. You must first feed it something other than
yourself. Only then do you stand a chance of taming it.”
—The
Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne upon learning the
unfortunate consequences of failing in one’s chaperone duties.

The brisk clack of Harrison’s Hessians on the
steps of the Berne townhouse echoed along a relatively quiet
stretch of Grosvenor Street. The afternoon was unusually crisp, the
skies cloudless, the air promising warmth but not yet delivering.
He’d thought perhaps the short walk from Berkeley Square would help
clear his mind, ease the worry that plagued him. But as he raised
his arm to knock on the oak door, his thoughts stubbornly circled
the same point: He had failed her. His baby sister.

He paused, staring at his gloved fist where
it hovered just shy of grasping the brass knocker, but seeing only
her tight, pale features as she left his home with that conniving
blackguard. Now her husband.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He had been
outmaneuvered—he, the Duke of Blackmore, a man so powerful, the
Prince Regent once privately expressed envy for his influence.
Atherbourne had gained more than the upper hand. The bastard had
Harrison’s sister. God only knew what would come of that union, but
he found it difficult to imagine anything good. Now, he was left to
wonder, left to watch over her from a distance, to try to help
repair what Atherbourne had broken. Because of him. Because of what
he
had done.

The door swung inward, startling Harrison out
of his thoughts. He dropped his arm and gave Berne’s butler a blank
stare. The middle-aged servant must have taken his look for
disapproval, because he instantly bowed. “My deepest apologies,
your grace. I did not hear your arrival.” He stepped back and waved
Harrison inside, accepting the hat Harrison automatically handed
him. “I shall alert Lord and Lady Berne straight away. Would you
care to wait in the drawing room?”

Harrison gave a brief nod, barely glancing at
the servant. “That will be fine.”

The butler escorted him upstairs to the small
but elegant drawing room with its blue silk walls, oak floors, and
tall windows. He departed, saying something about tea. Still
distracted by his earlier thoughts, Harrison wandered toward the
window in the far right corner of the room. With a single finger,
he knuckled aside the gold striped draperies and glanced out at the
street below. A high-perch phaeton rumbled past, the tow-headed
buck at the reins recklessly pushing a pair of roans too fast.
Harrison frowned. The man—or, to be more precise, boy—was tempting
fate mightily. Did today’s youths not understand how irresponsible
their behavior was? How it endangered others? And for what? A
moment of exhilaration, of emotion. Shameful.

He shook his head and clasped his hands
behind his back. Colin was the same, perhaps worse. He dove
headlong into the brandy bottle, never thinking how his careless,
foolhardy behavior might embarrass those who shared his name, his
bloodline. Never wondering if it was right to subject others to his
drunken idiocy.

Harrison’s inability to comprehend Colin’s
lack of control had proven a barrier to correcting his behavior. He
had tried everything—limiting his allowance, sending him abroad,
scolding, cajoling, threatening. Nothing had worked. The drinking
had only grown worse, especially in the past year. Victoria had
suggested cutting Colin off completely. And for his gentle,
softhearted sister to even hint at such a thing, Harrison knew the
situation had become critical. But he could not bring himself to do
it. Colin and Victoria were his responsibility, and despite the
fact that he appeared to be failing them both rather miserably, he
would not abandon them. Ever.

A high-pitched squeal followed by the
staccato thud of racing footsteps was muffled by the closed doors,
but it drew his attention nonetheless. Loud peals of feminine
laughter—
young
feminine laughter—reached his ears,
generating an instant reaction. That of annoyance. He scowled at
the doors, then reached into his waistcoat pocket to retrieve his
watch. One fifteen. What the bloody hell was keeping Lord and Lady
Berne?

“Genie, I swear to you,” another voice
sounded through the doors, this one slightly deeper, though still
feminine, and obviously vexed. “If you damage that book in any way,
I will cut every hair ribbon you own into tiny, unrecognizable
bits.”

“Oh, Mr. Darcy! You are my heeeeroooo. How
could I not fall madly in looooove!” He could not be certain, but
he suspected what followed the girlish, singsong voice was the
sound of either smacking or exaggerated kissing noises. Either way,
it ended in a shriek, as though the one who had produced the noise
had been abruptly set upon.

“Give it back, you wretched brat. Do not
force me to threaten your bonnets.”

Another shriek, a hard thud, more rapid
footsteps, then the doors to the drawing room flew open. A
dark-haired girl who could not be above twelve careened into the
room, clutching a small brown book to her flat yellow bodice. She
was immediately followed by a taller—though, by no means
tall—considerably more buxom girl of perhaps eighteen or nineteen.
This girl was also dark-haired, but was plump, bespectacled, and
narrow-eyed with determination. She looked familiar, but it took
him a moment to recognize her. She was one of the daughters who had
attended Victoria’s wedding. Was it Joan? Anne? He couldn’t recall.
That day had passed in a haze of red for him.

The younger girl rounded one of the sofas set
in the middle of the room, placing it between her and the older
girl. “I shall burn it, see if I don’t!” she pronounced,
dramatically extending the book toward the fireplace. Which
happened to be at least ten feet away.

The spectacled one narrowed her eyes and
lowered her voice. “I shall burn
you
, see if I don’t.”

“Ha!” came the immediate reply. “You cannot
even lift Katie any longer. How do you expect to throw me in the
fireplace?”

Small, feminine hands landed on rounded hips.
“Well, Genie, you have me there,” Joan/Anne/Whoever replied
sarcastically. “I suppose I shall have to bring the fire to
you.”

Genie’s expression grew mutinous. “You
wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Sisters should not threaten to burn one
another.”

“Sisters should not make it necessary by
pilfering one another’s possessions. Now give it back before I am
forced to do something drastic.”

Genie pouted in a way that made him think she
had practiced the expression in front of a mirror countless times.
“I was only having a bit of fun. You are forever
reading
,
Jane. It is so
boring
.”

The briefest shadow flashed over the
spectacled one’s face. Jane. Now he remembered. Her name was Jane.
His brows lowered and his jaw tightened. Heedless children, both of
them. They threw hurtful words at one another, flailing wildly
about without a thought to the damage they could do. Neither had
stopped long enough to notice him standing in the corner of the
room.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

Two pairs of dark eyes swung his direction,
flared comically wide, flew back to one another, then back to him.
Genie’s mouth gaped. Jane’s face and throat flushed a mottled,
unbecoming red.

“My … your … y-your grace,” Jane managed,
stumbling on an awkward curtsy.

“He’s a duke?!” Genie hissed. Before her
sister could reply, the girl shoved the book into Jane’s hands and
ran pell-mell out of the room. Jane pressed the brown leather
volume to her ample bosom, and Harrison’s eyes followed it
automatically, watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest. His
frown deepened.

“What book is so precious, I wonder, that it
draws threats of burning one’s sibling?” He watched as her flush
deepened and spread. Her mouth remained open as though she wanted
to speak but could not.

“Nothing to say for yourself, then?” Even to
his own ears, his voice sounded harsh. Cold. Before his vexation
could get the better of him, he turned his back on her to gaze once
again out the window. Minutes passed in silence. After a while, he
glanced behind him to where she had stood, but she was gone. A pang
of conscience struck. Perhaps he had not handled that well. He’d
been angry with Colin and Atherbourne and, yes, even Victoria for
their reckless behavior. Perhaps his reaction to what was likely
routine sisterly squabbling had been a touch severe.

Lady Berne entered through the open door, her
short, round frame bustling forward in a rolling, harried rush.
Lord Berne, lean and distinguished, followed more sedately, a
bemused smile on his face. Harrison acknowledged them both with a
nod and a brief bow.

“Your grace, I am so sorry to have kept you
waiting,” the countess began. “I’m afraid there was a bit of an …
incident with the supper menu.” She held her hand up as though to
stop him from interrupting. “No need to panic, however. The crisis
has been averted. Lord Berne will have his pheasant, and domestic
tranquility may resume uninterrupted.” This last bit she said with
a wry grin and a twinkle.

He blinked, feeling as though he had missed
something. First, the earl’s daughters chased one another through
the halls like a couple of harridans, screeching and threatening
all manner of bodily harm, then the countess admitted she was late
to an appointment with him—a duke, no less—because she had not
properly managed arrangements for the evening meal. Honestly, he’d
had no idea the Berne household was in such disarray. After a long,
uncomfortable silence, Lord Berne intervened. “Well,” the older
gentleman said in his usual affable tone. “Perhaps we should
sit.”

By the time they all took their seats and tea
had been delivered, offered, and declined, the tension along the
back of Harrison’s neck had crawled up inside his skull, gnawing
its way forward in a vague, pounding ache.

“Now then,” Lady Berne began, a few strands
of silver-laced brown hair peeking from beneath her ruffled cap. “I
must first apologize, your grace. As a chaperone, it was my duty to
ensure Victoria came to no harm while under my care. I failed her,
and I failed you.” The matron stopped, apparently overcome by
emotion. She pressed her lips together, her eyes welling with a
sheen of tears. Reaching inside the cuff of her gown, she pulled
out a handkerchief and held it to her nose.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she halted
him by raising her palm and choking out, “No, no. Do not so hastily
offer forgiveness.”

Lowering his brows, he felt the headache
tighten and intensify. He had not been about to offer forgiveness.
She was right. Her lack of vigilance was, in part, to blame for the
disaster at the Gattingford ball. Before he could say as much,
however, Lord Berne reached over and stroked his wife’s arm
soothingly. “There, there, dearest. You cannot blame yourself.
Atherbourne knew what he was about before he ever entered the
ballroom. It’s likely if you had thwarted him there, he would have
merely found another opportunity.”

“I should have warned the poor girl. She did
not even know who he was,” Lady Berne murmured, then sniffed and
met Harrison’s eyes. “Your mother was one of my dearest friends. I
will do all in my power to restore Victoria’s good standing. It is
what she would have wanted.”

Feeling as though his muscles had been shot
full of mortar, Harrison could do little more than nod. Lord Berne
squeezed the countess’s hand gently, and gave Harrison a small
smile. “We may have an idea about that, actually.”

His eyes shifted back and forth between the
earl and countess. “Yes?”

Lady Berne nodded, the lace on her cap
bobbing as she scooted forward to perch on the edge of the sofa. “I
am bosom friends with a certain marchioness,” she whispered
loudly.

He blinked. “Is that so?”

She wrinkled her short, rounded nose and
grinned secretively. “I may be owed a small favor.” Ignoring what
must be his puzzled expression—for he could not fathom what the
blazes she was talking about—she rushed on, waving her handkerchief
dismissively, then tucking it back inside her sleeve.
“Unfortunately, even that may not be enough. The scandal is
positively ghastly. Do you know what they are saying about your
poor, dear sister?”

His frown became a scowl, his headache now a
vise wielded by the devil himself. “No. Tell me.”

She cleared her throat delicately. “It is
simply dreadful, your grace. But you must know the truth. Both last
season and this, Victoria was heralded as a premier example of
virtue and grace. While that made her quite successful in attaining
honorable suitors, it also engendered a great deal of envy among
other debutantes and, more to the point, among their mothers. Her
fall from such a high pedestal, I fear, has invited viciousness on
a scale I have seldom witnessed.”

“What, precisely, are they saying?” he asked
softly.

Lady Berne glanced at her husband, who nodded
and patted her wrist, encouraging her to continue. “The mildest of
the accusations is that she is a hypocrite and a fraud. Others
speculate she was Atherbourne’s mistress all along, and that the
two of them planned to continue their liaison after her marriage to
Stickley. The worst rumors suggest a conspiracy to do away with
Stickley after he inherited, leaving Victoria a widowed
duchess.”

“These rumors, are they widespread?” Harrison
asked, his jaw tight, his stomach churning. He’d known it was bad.
Lord Dunston and even Dunston’s sister, Mary, had warned him that
the ton was gleefully digging its claws into the juicy carcass
Atherbourne had served up. But he hadn’t realized just how far it
had gone.