The spinster and the wastrel (20 page)

Her friend's defense warmed the chill in Annette's heart. "We cannot make him do what he does not want, but I appreciate your thoughtfulness. You are a good woman."

"So are you." Lucille pulled her sewing out from its hiding place under the pillow. "After all, you gave him back that money. He has no right to go off and spend it in that city."

Genuine amusement trickled through Annette, making her more grateful to the other woman. "Of course he can. It is his money now."

"You should have attached strings to it," Lucille grumbled.

Annette could not help chuckling. Although her heart feared the times she shared with Sir Gerard were over, she still possessed the tried-and-true comfort of her friend. "The only stipulation I attached was the funding for my school. I need to concentrate on that."

"You deserve more."

"He will give us an annuity. The school will keep me plenty busy." She noticed Lucille had not restarted her sewing. To set the example of how she meant to go on, Annette picked up her needle. "After all, it is the achieve-

ment of my dream. Apparently going to London and partaking of the social scene is his."

Her friend started to protest, but a stern glance from Annette commanded her silence on the topic. Ignoring it, Lucille said, "I don't see why. He has lived there for years already."

With great care, Annette set a tiny stitch in the fabric. "It is his chance to shine among the ton. He has long craved their admiration."

"Everyone looked up to him here." Lucille's needle remained unmoving in her hand. "Besides, London is where he got into so much trouble with his gambling."

A bolt of dread shot through Annette. With an unerring aim, her friend had voiced the one fear that Annette did not want to confront.

"I am sure he is through with that," she said in a small voice. "He did not gamble when he was here."

"He did not have the money."

"Oh, hush, Lucille." The other woman was expressing every argument she herself would have used. Annette did not like being on the receiving end of such logic when it was the emotion of love that had ruled her decision. She could not marry without love on her beloved's side. Instead, she had given him his heart's desire, but she did not intend to inform the world—or Lucille—of the fact.

"It was a grave injustice that the money ever came to me. Sir Nigel did it out of spite," Annette said. "I wanted to set things right."

"Marriage would have set things right." The other woman cast a knowing glance at Annette.

"That was an impossible solution. I told you so many

times." Looking up from her work, she pleaded, "I truly do not wish to continue this conversation."

Her friend's face softened. "I understand. You have suffered a great disappointment."

Setting aside her neglected sewing, Lucille gathered up the tea things and returned to the kitchen.

After the door swung shut behind her companion, Annette stopped her pretense of sewing and looked over at the chair where Sir Gerard had sat. She could almost see his presence still there. The male scent of horse and shaving soap lingered, causing her to inhale deeply, eager to hold onto something of him for as long as she could. If he ever returned, he would not be the man she had known.

Lucille called the feeling inside disappointment, but Annette thought the hollow darkness within deserved a far stronger name than disappointment. It was despair that beat at her heart like a moth frantically seeking the light.

London lay very far away, and there were many bright temptations to change a man. Besides the gambling, there were the women, so sophisticated and brilliantly beautiful. Annette knew she could never compete against them. One of them would be chosen his bride. Someday she would even call on the lady. Someday.

Her hands tightened, further crumpling the muslin work on her lap. Why was her love not enough for marriage? Why had she refused him when she had the chance to snatch up his offer and make him hers forever?

Because he would not have been hers. A tear started to trickle down her face, and she hurriedly wiped it away. This overwrought distress would never do.

She had to face the facts. A marriage based solely on

her love would have left her constantly seeking signs of affection from her husband. She would have been like an active puppy, appreciated occasionally, but never respected like an equal partner. She could not live in such a marriage. Eventually her love would have died from a lack of appreciation.

Annette smoothed the work on her lap. She had made her choice in life. Losing Sir Gerard was the consequence. Always before, she had faced life's setbacks directly and moved forward. She could—no, she must—do the same this time.

With grim determination, Annette set a stitch along the seam she was sewing. She made another one. Then another one.

She had her school. Those children were going to learn. It was the only mission that remained to her. She would teach them.

And someday, she would graciously call upon the new Lady Montfort.

The private coach rattled on towards London. Inside, Sir Gerard and Linton bounced around like dice at a gambling table.

Despite the rough treatment, Linton sighed with satisfaction. "I, for one, am glad to be leaving here. No offense meant to your home and all that, but it was a mighty quiet time."

Grabbing the strap to steady himself, Sir Gerard said, "Quiet? I thought there was always something happen-mg.

"The Assemblies were only once a week, with occasional dinner parties where the country maidens were

displayed for our benefit." Linton shuddered. "It was not a social life."

"You will get that in London."

"Yes, and am I glad to be headed there."

The anticipation in his friend's voice reflected the excitement within Sir Gerard. "At last," he agreed, "no more living as the necessary extra man for hostesses or working to survive by training horses. At last I am my own man."

Linton punched his friend on the shoulder. "I am grateful you covered my debts, so I could join you."

"We have been through too much together for me to leave you behind," Sir Gerard said.

The carriage jolted over a series of deep ruts, nearly tossing its passengers from their seats. The coachman was obeying his master's orders to make Godspeed for London.

When he had recovered his breath, Linton asked, "Did you ever find out why the spinster returned the money?"

Annoyance shot through Sir Gerard. "You will call her Miss Courtney. She deserves your respect."

Linton raised his eyebrows, but complied. "Miss Courtney surrendered it so easily. I wonder why."

"I found out. She finally agreed to the justice of my claim." He did not want to remember his final call upon Annette. That glimpse of deep emotion he had caught upon her face still bothered him. As a very righteous woman, she could not allow such an injustice to continue. Many times since that visit he had reassured himself thusly, but somehow, he remained unconvinced.

Linton chuckled. "You were lucky to escape without marriage."

"Yes, lucky," Sir Gerard muttered. He did not want to think of that good fortune. With determination, he grinned

to his friend. "I hope London is ready for us with wine, women, and song."

Sir Gerard buried the twinge of regret pricking inside him and joined Linton in a rousing sailors' melody that would have been banned from the drawing room of any hostess.

The coach rattled towards London.

Ghaptet ^/owzteesi

Annette wondered if the spring air was to blame for causing her students to act up. The early April weather still possessed a nip, but its breezes burgeoned with the promise of future blooms. The same energy infected the schoolchildren.

More and more they shifted restlessly on their benches. Although she could not fault Sir Gerard, things at the school seemed to become difficult soon after he left for London over three weeks ago.

'Tom, you can read this passage." She put as much encouragement for the nervous student into her voice. "These are all words you have studied."

With great concentration, the boy wrinkled his brow and pointed his finger at the word in the Bible. "He went down to J-J-J ..." His voice trailed off, and he looked to her for help.

"Joppa," she said. Her smile felt tight on her face.

"Joppa." Tom struggled on. "Found a ship going to Tar-Tar-Tar—" The boy looked up. "I'd like to go on a ship. I want to be a cabin boy and fight the French."

Annette tried to steer his attention back to his assign-

ment, but the prospect of sailing tempted him more than the story of Jonah and the big whale. She saw the rest of the class no longer even listened to the slow reading. In fact, John had just tweaked Molly's braid. Molly retaliated with a push. Indignant whispers and pushing ensued.

With a sigh, Annette sent Tom back to his seat and administered discipline to the restive children.

Arithmetic fared no better. The simple addition and subtraction she had drilled into their heads seemed to have melted with the winter snows. Blank stares met her efforts at word problems. As for penmanship, why chickens scratched more neatly in the barnyard! Annette shook her head in dismay.

Even Jack, the one student of whom she was so proud, appeared disinterested in the weekly lessons she taught him after school at her home.

"Were you able to read the chapter in that history book?" she asked him. They were seated together on the couch in her drawing room.

He shrugged. "I started to, Miss Courtney, but it weren't interesting at all."

She had assumed knights and battles would attract a boy. "It is the history of England. You should know it."

"But what does it have to do with being a steward?" he asked.

"Knowledge of history is required of an educated man." She opened the book to the chapter and thrust it at him. "Please read this passage to me, and then we will discuss it."

Jack stumbled through the reading and the following discussion, although it was she who did most of the talking.

Afterwards, through the window, she watched him run

up the street for home. She let out a long, slow breath, and her shoulders slumped as she sat down again on her chair.

To be honest, she knew her discontent was not the children's fault. They acted" no differently from when she started the school.

She amended that thought. Maybe a bit more restless due to the seasonal change, but their antics had not worn on her the way they did now. Now she saw only the disciplining she must administer, not the nurturing of blossoming learning. She had her school, but her joy in it had vanished when her dream had changed.

Now the dream of a family of her own surged within her, only this time she knew who wore the wanted face of her husband. She had had her chance when he had proposed, but she had refused. Without love from him, this dream too would have withered. She would never gain her heart's true desire, but she must not wallow in discontent. She punched a pillow into shape and arranged it in the corner of the couch. Thoughts of the baronet must be banished. The school was enough for her. She would make it so.

London suited Sir Gerard just as he always dreamed it would. He found a small, yet elegant, apartment for himself, but he was seldom at home in it. The clubs, the parties, and the balls all beckoned. He filled his days and a good portion of his nights with the pleasures his money bought.

One of the most pleasant was his interview with Mortimer Wallace. Sir Gerard summoned the money-lender to his chambers. He was careful not to rise in a greeting when the man was admitted.

"Baronet Westcourt." Wallace bowed.

"I am glad you came." Sir Gerard leaned back in his chair. He was pleased to notice the fine sheen of perspiration covering the other man's face. The climb up the stairs must have winded him.

"You said it was urgent." The money-lender glanced at an empty chair, but Sir Gerard did not offer it to him. He intended the man to realize who was in command of this interview.

"Yes, I have two items to deal with you." Sir Gerard pulled himself upright in his chair. Beneath his tightened grip, he felt the roughness of its brocaded upholstery. "First, you will shortly receive a draft on my bank which will pay off the balance of my loan to you."

A wide insincere smile creased Wallace's face. "That is no longer necessary, sir. I have learned of your good luck in gaining your uncle's fortune. I am quite willing to abide by the original terms. You can pay the installments—and interest—as we agreed."

"I no longer agree." Sir Gerard stood and moved closer to let his height tower over the money-lender. "The contract no longer exists between us. In fact, I have contacted the magistrates, both in Wiltshire and here in London, to investigate an attack made upon me."

"I am very sorry to hear—"

"When the culprits are found, they will testify as to whom ordered that attack."

Wallace spread out his plump hands in an ingratiating manner. "Surely that is not necessary. You survived, and I am getting my loan repaid."

Sir Gerard's gaze bore into the other man. "You would not want such ruffians running free. Law and order must be upheld."

The wet sheen on the money-lender's face appeared

even thicker. A drop rolled down his chin. "Of course, the law must deal with criminals, but you and I can forget any unpleasantness between us. Should it become necessary, I would be happy to lend you any further sums."

Smiling so that his teeth showed, Sir Gerard said, "I will not be borrowing from you again, but I eagerly anticipate prosecuting all of those involved in my attack. I now have the money to do so."

Wallace visibly trembled. He cleared his throat. "Surely that is more action than is needed."

"Oh, but it is very necessary." To send him on his way, Sir Gerard distastefully took the money-lender's arm and propelled him out the door.

The man started to sputter. Sir Gerard shut the door on him and felt an immense satisfaction that was worth the revulsion of inviting that disgusting man into his rooms. He was grateful to Annette, both for saving him physically from that man's attack and giving him the financial means for revenge.