by Julia Quinn
“I—I want children,” Lucy said, latching on to the first excuse she could think of.
“Oh, you’ll have them,” he said.
He smiled then, and her blood turned to ice.
“Uncle Robert?” she whispered.
“He may not like women, but he will be able to do the job often enough to sire a brat off you. And if he can’t . . .” He shrugged.
“What?” Lucy felt panic rising in her chest. “What do you mean?”
“Davenport will take care of it.”
“His father?” Lucy gasped.
“Either way, it is a direct male heir, and that is all that is important.”
Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I can’t. I can’t.” She thought of Lord Davenport, with his horrible breath and jiggly jowls. And his cruel, cruel eyes. He would not be kind. She didn’t know how she knew, but he wouldn’t be kind.
Her uncle leaned forward in his seat, his eyes narrowing menacingly. “We all have our positions in life, Lucinda, and yours is to be a nobleman’s wife. Your duty is to provide an heir. And you will do it, in whatever fashion Davenport deems necessary.”
Lucy swallowed. She had always done as she was told. She had always accepted that the world worked in certain ways. Dreams could be adjusted; the social order could not.
Take what you are given, and make the best of things.
It was what she had always said. It was what she had always done.
But not this time.
She looked up, directly into her uncle’s eyes. “I won’t do it,” she said, and her voice did not waver. “I won’t marry him.”
“What . . . did . . . you . . . say?” Each word came out like its own little sentence, pointy and cold.
Lucy swallowed. “I said—”
“I know what you said!” he roared, slamming his hands on his desk as he rose to his feet. “How dare you question me? I have raised you, fed you, given you every bloody thing you need. I have looked after and protected this family for ten years, when none of it—none of it—will come to me.”
“Uncle Robert,” she tried to say. But she could barely hear her own voice. Every word he had said was true. He did not own this house. He did not own the Abbey or any of the other Fennsworth holdings. He had nothing other than what Richard might choose to give him once he fully assumed his position as earl.
“I am your guardian,” her uncle said, his voice so low it shook. “Do you understand? You will marry Haselby, and we will never speak of this again.”
Lucy stared at her uncle in horror. He had been her guardian for ten years, and in all that time, she had never seen him lose his temper. His displeasure was always served cold.
“It’s that Bridgerton idiot, isn’t it?” he bit off, angrily swiping at some books on his desk. They tumbled to the floor with a loud thud.
Lucy jumped back.
“Tell me!”
She said nothing, watching her uncle warily as he advanced upon her.
“Tell me!” he roared.
“Yes,” she said quickly, taking another step back. “How did you— How did you know?”
“Do you think I’m an idiot? His mother and his sister both beg the favor of your company on the same day?” He swore under his breath. “They were obviously plotting to steal you away.”
“But you let me go to the ball.”
“Because his sister is a duchess, you little fool! Even Davenport agreed that you had to attend.”
“But—”
“Christ above,” Uncle Robert swore, shocking Lucy into silence. “I cannot believe your stupidity. Has he even promised marriage? Are you really prepared to toss over the heir to an earldom for the possibility of a viscount’s fourth son?”
“Yes,” Lucy whispered.
Her uncle must have seen the determination on her face, because he paled. “What have you done?” he demanded. “Have you let him touch you?”
Lucy thought of their kiss, and she blushed.
“You stupid cow,” he hissed. “Well, lucky for you Haselby won’t know how to tell a virgin from a whore.”
“Uncle Robert!” Lucy shook with horror. She had not grown so bold that she could brazenly allow him to think her impure. “I would never— I didn’t— How could you think it of me?”
“Because you are acting like a bloody idiot,” he snapped. “As of this minute, you will not leave this house until you leave for your wedding. If I have to post guards at your bedchamber door, I will.”
“No!” Lucy cried out. “How could you do this to me? What does it matter? We don’t need their money. We don’t need their connections. Why can’t I marry for love?”
At first her uncle did not react. He stood as if frozen, the only movement a vein pounding in his temple. And then, just when Lucy thought she might begin to breathe again, he cursed violently and lunged toward her, pinning her against the wall.
“Uncle Robert!” she gasped. His hand was on her chin, forcing her head into an unnatural position. She tried to swallow, but it was almost impossible with her neck arched so tightly. “Don’t,” she managed to get out, but it was barely a whimper. “Please . . . Stop.”
But his grip only tightened, and his forearm pressed against her collarbone, the bones of his wrist digging painfully into her skin.
“You will marry Lord Haselby,” he hissed. “You’ll marry him, and I will tell you why.”
Lucy said nothing, just stared at him with frantic eyes.
“You, my dear Lucinda, are the final payment of a long-standing debt to Lord Davenport.”
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
“Blackmail,” Uncle Robert said in a grim voice. “We have been paying Davenport for years.”
“But why?” Lucy asked. What could they have possibly done to warrant blackmail?
Her uncle’s lip curled mockingly. “Your father, the beloved eighth Earl of Fennsworth, was a traitor.”
Lucy gasped, and it felt as if her throat were tightening, tying itself into a knot. It couldn’t be true. She’d thought perhaps an extramarital affair. Maybe an earl who wasn’t really an Abernathy. But treason? Dear God . . . no.
“Uncle Robert,” she said, trying to reason with him. “There must be a mistake. A misunderstanding. My father . . . He was not a traitor.”
“Oh, I assure you he was, and Davenport knows it.”
Lucy thought of her father. She could still see him in her mind—tall, handsome, with laughing blue eyes. He had spent money far too freely; even as a small child she had known that. But he was not a traitor. He could not have been. He had a gentleman’s honor. She remembered that. It was in the way he’d stood, the things he’d taught her.
“You are lying,” she said, the words burning in her throat. “Or misinformed.”
“There is proof,” her uncle said, abruptly releasing her and striding across the room to his decanter of brandy. He poured a glass and took a long gulp. “And Davenport has it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know how,” he snapped. “I only know that he does. I have seen it.”
Lucy swallowed and hugged her arms to her chest, still trying to absorb what he was telling her. “What sort of proof?”
“Letters,” he said grimly. “Written in your father’s hand.”
“They could be forged.”
“They have his seal!” he thundered, slamming his glass down.
Lucy’s eyes widened as she watched the brandy slosh over the side of the glass and off the edge of the desk.
“Do you think I would accept something like this without verifying it myself?” her uncle demanded. “There was information—details—things only your father could have known. Do you think I would have paid Davenport’s blackmail all these years if there was a chance it was false?”
Lucy shook her head. Her uncle was many things, but he was not a fool.
“He came to me six months after your father died. I have been paying him ever since.”
“
But why me?” she asked.
Her uncle chuckled bitterly. “Because you will be the perfect upstanding, obedient bride. You will make up for Haselby’s deficiencies. Davenport had to get the boy married to someone, and he needed a family that would not talk.” He gave her a level stare. “Which we will not. We cannot. And he knows it.”
She shook her head in agreement. She would never speak of such things, whether she was Haselby’s wife or not. She liked Haselby. She did not wish to make life difficult for him. But neither did she wish to be his wife.
“If you do not marry him,” her uncle said slowly, “the entire Abernathy family will be ruined. Do you understand?”
Lucy stood frozen.
“We are not speaking of a childhood transgression, a Gypsy in the family tree. Your father committed high treason. He sold state secrets to the French, passed them off to agents posing as smugglers on the coast.”
“But why?” Lucy whispered. “We didn’t need the money.”
“How do you think we got the money?” her uncle returned caustically. “And your father—” He swore under his breath. “He always had a taste for danger. He probably did it for the thrill of it. Isn’t that a joke upon us all? The very earldom is in danger, and all because your father wanted a spot of adventure.”
“Father wasn’t like that,” Lucy said, but inside she wasn’t so sure. She had been just eight when he had been killed by a footpad in London. She had been told that he had come to the defense of a lady, but what if that, too, was a lie? Had he been killed because of his traitorous actions? He was her father, but how much did she truly know of him?
But Uncle Robert didn’t appear to have heard her comment. “If you do not marry Haselby,” he said, his words low and precise, “Lord Davenport will reveal the truth about your father, and you will bring shame upon the entire house of Fennsworth.”
Lucy shook her head. Surely there was another way. This couldn’t rest all upon her shoulders.
“You think not?” Uncle Robert laughed scornfully. “Who do you think will suffer, Lucinda? You? Well, yes, I suppose you will suffer, but we can always pack you off to some school and let you moulder away as an instructor. You’d probably enjoy it.”
He took a few steps in her direction, his eyes never leaving her face. “But do think of your brother,” he said. “How will he fare as the son of a known traitor? The king will almost certainly strip him of his title. And most of his fortune as well.”
“No,” Lucy said. No. She didn’t want to believe it. Richard had done nothing wrong. Surely he couldn’t be blamed for his father’s sins.
She sank into a chair, desperately trying to sort through her thoughts and emotions.
Treason. How could her father have done such a thing? It went against everything she’d been brought up to believe in. Hadn’t her father loved England? Hadn’t he told her that the Abernathys had a sacred duty to all Britain?
Or had that been Uncle Robert? Lucy shut her eyes tightly, trying to remember. Someone had said that to her. She was sure of it. She could remember where she’d stood, in front of the portrait of the first earl. She remembered the smell of the air, and the exact words, and—blast it all, she remembered everything save the person who’d spoken them.
She opened her eyes and looked at her uncle. It had probably been he. It sounded like something he would say. He did not choose to speak with her very often, but when he did, duty was always a popular topic.
“Oh, Father,” she whispered. How could he have done this? To sell secrets to Napoleon—he’d jeopardized the lives of thousands of British soldiers. Or even—
Her stomach churned. Dear God, he may have been responsible for their deaths. Who knew what he had revealed to the enemy, how many lives had been lost because of his actions?
“It is up to you, Lucinda,” her uncle said. “It is the only way to end it.”
She shook her head, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?”
“Once you are a Davenport, there can be no more blackmail. Any shame they bring upon us would fall on their shoulders as well.” He walked to the window, leaning heavily on the sill as he looked out. “After ten years, I will finally—We will finally be free.”
Lucy said nothing. There was nothing to say. Uncle Robert peered at her over his shoulder, then turned and walked toward her, watching her closely the entire way. “I see you finally grasp the gravity of the situation,” he said.
She looked at him with haunted eyes. There was no compassion in his face, no sympathy or affection. Just a cold mask of duty. He had done what was expected of him, and she would have to do the same.
She thought of Gregory, of his face when he had asked her to marry him. He loved her. She did not know what manner of miracle had brought it about, but he loved her.
And she loved him.
God above, it was almost funny. She, who had always mocked romantic love, had fallen. Completely and hopelessly, she’d fallen in love—enough to throw aside everything she’d thought she believed in. For Gregory she was willing to step into scandal and chaos. For Gregory she would brave the gossip and the whispers and the innuendo.
She, who went mad when her shoes were out of order in her wardrobe, was prepared to jilt the son of an earl four days before the wedding! If that wasn’t love, she did not know what was.
Except now it was over. Her hopes, her dreams, the risks she longed to take—they were all over.
She had no choice. If she defied Lord Davenport, her family would be ruined. She thought of Richard and Hermione—so happy, so in love. How could she consign them to a life of shame and poverty?
If she married Haselby her life would not be what she wanted for herself, but she would not suffer. Haselby was reasonable. He was kind. If she appealed to him, surely he would protect her from his father. And her life would be . . .
Comfortable.
Routine.
Far better than Richard and Hermione would fare if her father’s shame was made public. Her sacrifice was nothing compared to what her family would be forced to endure if she refused.
Hadn’t she once wanted nothing more than comfort and routine? Couldn’t she learn to want this again?
“I will marry him,” she said, sightlessly gazing at the window. It was raining. When had it begun to rain?
“Good.”
Lucy sat in her chair, utterly still. She could feel the energy draining from her body, sliding through her limbs, seeping out her fingers and toes. Lord, she was tired. Weary. And she kept thinking that she wanted to cry.
But she had no tears. Even after she’d risen and walked slowly back to her room—she had no tears.
The next day, when the butler asked her if she was at home for Mr. Bridgerton, and she shook her head—she had no tears.
And the day after that, when she was forced to repeat the same gesture—she had no tears.
But the day after that, after spending twenty-hours holding his calling card, gently sliding her finger over his name, of tracing each letter—The Hon. Gregory Bridgerton—she began to feel them, pricking behind her eyes.
Then she caught sight of him standing on the pavement, looking up at the façade of Fennsworth House.
And he saw her. She knew he did; his eyes widened and his body tensed, and she could feel it, every ounce of his bewilderment and anger.
She let the curtain drop. Quickly. And she stood there, trembling, shaking, and yet still unable to move. Her feet were frozen to the floor, and she began to feel it again—that awful rushing panic in her belly.
It was wrong. It was all so wrong, and yet she knew she was doing what had to be done.
She stood there. At the window, staring at the ripples in the curtain. She stood there as her limbs grew tense and tight, and she stood there as she forced herself to breathe. She stood there as her heart began to squeeze, harder and harder, and she stood there as it all slowly began to subside.
Then, somehow, she made her way to the bed and lay down.
&nb
sp; And then, finally, she found her tears.
Nineteen
In which Our Hero takes matters—and Our Heroine—into his own hands.
By Friday Gregory was desperate.
Thrice he’d called upon Lucy at Fennsworth House. Thrice he’d been turned away.
He was running out of time.
They were running out of time.
What the hell was going on? Even if Lucy’s uncle had denied her request to stop the wedding—and he could not have been pleased; she was, after all, attempting to jilt a future earl—surely Lucy would have attempted to contact him.
She loved him.
He knew it the way he knew his own voice, his own heart. He knew it the way he knew the earth was round and her eyes were blue and that two plus two would always always be four.
Lucy loved him. She did not lie. She could not lie.
She would not lie. Not about something like this.
Which meant that something was wrong. There could be no other explanation.
He had looked for her in the park, waiting for hours at the bench where she liked to feed pigeons, but she had not appeared. He had watched her door, hoping he might intercept her on her way to carry out errands, but she had not ventured outside.
And then, after the third time he had been refused entry, he saw her. Just a glimpse through the window; she’d let the curtains fall quickly. But it had been enough. He’d not been able to see her face—not well enough to gauge her expression. But there had been something in the way she moved, in the hurried, almost frantic release of the curtains.
Something was wrong.
Was she being held against her will? Had she been drugged? Gregory’s mind raced with the possibilities, each more dire than the last.
And now it was Friday night. Her wedding was in less than twelve hours. And there was not a whisper—not a peep—of gossip. If there were even a hint that the Haselby-Abernathy wedding might not take place as planned, Gregory would have heard about it. If nothing else, Hyacinth would have said something. Hyacinth knew everything, usually before the subjects of the rumors themselves.
Gregory stood in the shadows across the street from Fennsworth House and leaned against the trunk of a tree, staring, just staring. Was that her window? The one through which he’d seen her earlier that day? There was no candlelight peeking through, but the draperies were probably heavy and thick. Or perhaps she’d gone to bed. It was late.
