by Joyce Alec
Lady Sharrow shrugged and then indicated that Ophelia should pour the tea. “You shall allow him to court you regardless, Ophelia.”
“I do not care for—”
“I do not want to hear another word about what you feel, Ophelia,” Lady Sharrow interrupted sharply. “You may have convinced yourself that being a spinster is quite a wonderful life with a good deal to merit it. But I can tell you that it is not so.” Her lips tightened and she shook her head sharply. “One of my dearest friends ended up so and she has struggled every day of her life. She has no home to call her own, very little money, and so must rely on the goodness and kindness of her family. It does not matter how independent she wishes to be nor how honest her speech, for if she has no independent means, then she must scrape by in any way she can. Consider that, Ophelia. Consider whether you truly believe that life to be one that you seek out for yourself, when you could have marriage to a decent, upstanding gentleman who seems to care enough for you to beg for a second chance.”
For the first time in a good long while, Ophelia found herself unable to say even a single word in response. Her aunt had forced her to reconsider matters in a new light, for whilst she had never chased after spinsterhood, Ophelia had always thought that it could not be as poor a life as she had heard. Now, however, she slowly began to realize that even if she had a sharp wit and a determination to live as she chose, if she had no money or fortune to claim as her own—or if she only had very little to live on—then she would have to do as her aunt had said and beg for others’ kindness. She had no sisters or brothers who might open up their homes to her and whilst her father was kind enough, neither he nor her aunt and uncle would be present in this world forever. What would she do then?
“You will consider Lord Marchmont, Ophelia.”
The words were gentler now, as though her aunt had realized just how difficult it was for Ophelia to not only hear but to accept this from her.
“It is the wisest thing you can do.”
Giving herself a slight shake, Ophelia lifted her gaze from where it had been resting on the floor and settled it back on her aunt. Reaching to pour the tea, she felt a deep uncertainty rise up within her but pushed it back from her heart. She would remain strong and unbending and would not accept Lord Marchmont simply because both he and her aunt thought it best.
“I will accept his court but that does not mean I will then go on to accept any proposal he might make thereafter,” she stated firmly, seeing her aunt’s smile begin to fade. “I must decide for myself, Aunt. I understand the warnings that you have laid on my shoulders and for that, I am grateful, but that does not mean that I will simply then decide to become Lady Marchmont.” Finishing pouring the tea, she added a dash of milk to both cups before looking up at her aunt again. “As I have said, I will accept his courtship, but I certainly will not make up my mind on my future. I am still thoroughly convinced that Lord Marchmont and I do not suit and certainly would not rub along well, which would make for a rather strained existence.”
Besides which, Ophelia said to herself, I am not at all certain that Lord Marchmont truly does care for me in the manner which he has stated. I am inclined to think that there is something more to his urgent desire to begin our courtship again, although I cannot imagine what it might be.
Lady Sharrow sighed heavily and, with a slight shake of her head, reached for her teacup. “It is better than refusing him completely, I suppose. Very well, Ophelia. But do consider what I have said.”
“I shall, Aunt,” Ophelia agreed, sitting back in her chair with her cup of tea and wondering whether she would ever be able to discern the real reason that Lord Marchmont was eager for their courtship to continue, or if she would find that he continued to speak untruths to her. Unsettled, she closed her eyes tightly and drew in a long breath, letting it out slowly in order to calm herself a little further. Nothing was determined. It was not as though, in walking with Lord Marchmont tomorrow, she would be giving the entirety of her life to him.
Why then, did it feel as though she were about to deliberately step into a vast, yawning chasm, which would never let her go?
5
Peter bit his lip hard as he sealed what was now the third letter to his brother, knowing that he was behaving in an almost frantic manner but finding that he could do nothing about it. The first letter to Edward had been sent to the continent, where Peter had thought him to be. The second had been sent to Peter’s own estate, in the hope that Edward might have returned there should he have come back to England, and the third was now being sent to the docks, just in case Edward’s ship had only just returned or was due to come in.
Peter did not know what else to do. He had to discover the whereabouts of his brother. The note had stated quite clearly that Edward would bear the consequences of Peter’s inaction as regarded Miss Grey, which meant that surely the letter-writer would know where Edward was. The presence of Edward’s ring confirmed it, did it not? Peter did not think that he could still be on the continent if the threat was to mean something, but given that letters took a good deal of time to reach there and even longer for Peter to receive a response, Peter knew that he could not take any chances. He had to do what the note stated and, thus far at least, it seemed to be going rather well.
That was all thanks to Lady Sharrow, of course, who had been most insistent that her reluctant niece accept his offer of courtship earlier that day. The lies that he had told Miss Grey had come easily enough to his lips, although he had not been at all convinced that Miss Grey had believed him. The look in her eyes had told him that she was not certain that he spoke genuinely to her, even though Lady Sharrow believed every word. Why Lady Sharrow had been so insistent that Miss Grey accept him, he was not sure, but he was truly grateful that she had done so. Mayhap it was simply because Miss Grey was not the sort of young lady who had a good many gentlemen seeking to court her—which was, most likely, due to her sharp tongue and blunt way of speaking. It was not something that he found he appreciated either, for her brusque honesty had a habit of bringing such a color to his cheeks and a shame to his heart that he disliked it intensely. It was as though she wanted to see into the depths of his heart, wanted to know the truth in all of its entirety—but, of course now, he could not give her even a modicum of that. He had to keep the truth a secret from her.
Sighing heavily, he rang the bell, rose from his seat, and prepared to depart the house. He had not been in White’s in some time and mayhap it was a wise idea to make his way there so that he could, at least for a few moments, forget about his struggles. It was not as though he cared for another, not as if he had to bring an axe down on the connection between himself and another young lady whom he had fallen in love with. There was no one else who had captured his heart. It remained solely his, not entwined with another and certainly not with even a flicker of a feeling towards another.
“Take this letter,” he murmured as his butler came into the room. “I shall be out for the remainder of the evening.”
The butler lifted one eyebrow. “I did not know you had an invitation to an event, my lord. If you wish me to prepare the carriage or send for your valet, I—”
“No, no,” Peter muttered, waving the butler away. “I have no engagements. You need not call for the carriage. I shall either walk or hail a hackney.”
The butler, satisfied that the staff had not failed their master in any way, retreated from the room and left Peter to his own thoughts.
It did not take long for Peter to remove himself from the house, hurrying along the street as though the growing darkness were chasing after him, snapping at his heels. He felt his heart beat furiously, his mind clouded with dark thoughts and anxieties that would not escape him. He did not want to court Miss Grey. She was loud and brash, with a sharp tongue and a quick wit that, to his mind, did not behoove her in any way. A young lady ought not to concern herself with matters of the state, and yet Miss Grey had a great interest in such things. A young lady ought to talk qu
ietly, listen carefully, and give her opinions only when asked. Miss Grey did none of those things.
Sighing, Peter wondered whether he ought to continue to walk towards White’s or hail a hackney. The streets were fairly quiet and no doubt a good number of pickpockets and the like would be hiding in the shadows. Muttering darkly under his breath about the dangers of walking the London streets, Peter made to hail a hackney—only to hear someone calling his name.
“Marchmont? Is that you?”
He turned swiftly, frowning. A figure emerged into the dim pool of light that came from the eerie glow of the street lanterns. His frown lifted as he recognized not only Lord Blackridge but also another gentleman whom Peter had not seen in some time and, much to his frustration, whose title he could not recall. “However did you recognize me from that distance and in this gloom?” Peter asked, as Lord Blackridge approached. “Where are you headed?”
Lord Blackridge chuckled. “I would have known that slump of the shoulders and heavy-footed steps anywhere, Marchmont. You are still in the depths of despair, then?”
Peter threw a glance towards the second gentleman and then gave Lord Blackridge a tiny shake of the head. He did not wish anyone to know of his troubles, particularly not an acquaintance Peter had not seen in some time.
“In answer to your question,” Lord Blackridge continued, after only a moment’s pause, “we are to go to White’s, I think.” He glanced at the gentleman beside him. “Is that not so, Whitfield?”
Earl of Whitfield.
With a sigh of relief, Peter turned towards the man. “Good evening, Lord Whitfield. How very good to see you again and how fortune that I, too, am set in that direction.”
Lord Whitfield was short, a little plump, and had one of the longest noses Peter had ever seen. It was why the gentleman had immediately been recognizable, even if Peter had forgotten his title.
“Very fortunate indeed,” Lord Whitfield replied easily. “And it is good to see you also, Marchmont. Back to attempt to find yourself a wife this year, mayhap?” He chuckled and his hazel eyes filled with mirth as though he had made some sort of joke.
“As it happens, yes,” Peter replied, a little stiffly. “I will admit that I spent the last Season doing very little other than admiring from afar, but this Season, I have set my heart upon finding a suitable young lady.” He did not mention Miss Grey and prayed that Lord Blackridge knew better than to say her name aloud.
“Capital!” Lord Whitfield exclaimed, holding out his hand to an approaching hackney. “Then it is not to White’s that we must go, but to some ball or other, so that you might have ample opportunity to seek out this young lady, must we not?” He chuckled loudly as the hackney driver pulled the hackney to a halt just in front of them. “And as it stands, I know the very place we might go.”
Peter shook his head. “I confess that I am not eager to dance this evening, Whitfield. White’s was my intention and I—”
“Come now, do not be afraid!” Lord Whitfield exclaimed, reaching to pull himself inside. “Lord Staines is throwing a ball this evening and whilst it is not as grand as some may be, it will be good enough. You will have plenty of young debutantes to lay your eyes on, Marchmont. Trust me.” He did not wait for Peter to agree but gave the address to the hackney driver, who nodded and then proceeded to wait patiently for both Peter and Lord Blackridge to climb inside.
“I am not adequately dressed,” Peter complained, wanting to find some reason why he simply could not go to any ball. “Nor have I received or even accepted an invitation.”
Lord Whitfield snorted and shook his head, rapping loudly on the roof for the hackney driver to move forward. “Nonsense, old boy. You are dressed perfectly adequately and Lord Staines will not care in the least whether you were invited or not. It is late enough in the evening for the ball to be in full swing, which means that no one will even notice if we step in. Come now, do not be so low-spirited.”
Peter grimaced but sat back in his chair, knowing that he could not find anything in particular to argue with. There was no reason for him not to attend, other than the fact that he did not wish to. The joy of White’s, with its quiet confines, books, and fine brandy was not to be his this evening, it seemed. Instead, he would have to endure conversing and even dancing with any young lady that seemed eager to make his acquaintance, in order to prove to Lord Whitfield that he was doing precisely as he had stated. How frustrating it was! All he had wanted to do was drink a good deal in order to forget the confusion and the frustration that dogged him almost every minute.
“You need not look so forlorn, Marchmont,” Lord Blackridge murmured, as Lord Whitfield continued to look out of the window with a broad grin still plastered on his face. “Lord Staines has a good deal of fine whisky, which you will find in his library,” he said, clearly aware of what Peter’s intentions had been in attending White’s. “And I am sure that once we are in the midst of things, no one will be paying particular attention to you.”
Peter let out a long sigh and rolled his eyes at Lord Blackridge. “Indeed,” he muttered darkly, his voice barely audible above the noise of the horses’ hooves and the wheels turning on the cobbled streets. “For I have already managed to seek out the company of Miss Grey tomorrow afternoon and I have no need to introduce myself to any other.”
Lord Blackridge chuckled softly. “Then I must ensure that you have a decent supply of whisky or brandy this evening, in order to fortify you for tomorrow,” he replied, making Peter smile ruefully. “Although I am glad to hear that you have had some success with Miss Grey. You have not, as yet, told me all that has occurred, however.”
“Then I shall do so tonight,” Peter replied with alacrity. “Just as soon as I am free of any other… company.” He shot a look towards Lord Whitfield, who was now looking eagerly out of the window as though by seeing Lord Staines’ home, the hackney might reach there much sooner.
“Very good,” Lord Blackridge murmured, looking carefully at Peter. “I look forward to understanding your sudden desire to seek out Miss Grey again, particularly when you were not at all enamored with her of late.”
Peter sighed heavily. “But I must be enamored with her now,” he stated as the hackney began to slow. “For I have no other choice.”
It was not until at least an hour later that Peter was able to speak directly to Lord Blackridge about what had occurred. Lord Whitfield had, for whatever reason, chosen to stay close to them both and had insisted on introducing Peter to a good many young ladies, some of whom had been very pretty indeed. Peter had done his best to appear decently affable and had even danced with one or two of them, although his heart had not been in it. He would not, of course, pursue any of them, given that he would, from tomorrow, be courting Miss Grey.
“So,” Lord Blackridge began as they strolled slowly through the dark gardens that led from Lord Staines’ ballroom. “What is it about Miss Grey that intrigues you so?”
Scoffing at this, Peter shook his head in frustration. “I care nothing for Miss Grey. In fact, if I had my way, I would stay away from her entirely. I meant every word when I told her that the end of our courtship was for the best. Yet, I can make no other decision than to return to her. In fact,” he added, looking across at his friend and seeing, in the gloom, the way that he frowned, “I must do more than simply court her. I must marry her.”
“Marry her?” Lord Blackridge nearly shouted, sounding horrified at this suggestion. “Why should you have to wed someone you care nothing for?”
With another heavy sigh, Peter explained briefly what had occurred. Lord Blackridge said nothing as he spoke, with Peter explaining everything that had happened since he had woken up in that dark room. It was only when Peter had finished that Lord Blackridge let out a long breath, shaking his head in apparent disbelief.
“That is quite astonishing,” he muttered, as Peter wondered whether he would be able to find any more whisky to take away the frustration that continued to build within him. “And you ha
ve no thought as to who might have written such a thing?”
“None,” Peter sighed heavily. “I cannot imagine who would have done so.”
There was a short, tense silence. “You do not think that it would be Miss Grey herself, do you?” Lord Blackridge suggested, sounding hesitant. “She would not…”
Peter laughed aloud at this, despite the confusion and frustration that lingered in his heart. “No, indeed not. Miss Grey is nothing if she is not honest and I am fully aware of just how little she wishes to so much as walk with me.” He shook his head, recalling just how bluntly she had spoken. “No, Miss Grey cannot be considered and nor can her aunt, Lady Sharrow. I believe she was just as astonished as Miss Grey was over my appearance within the house and my declaration of affection.”
Lord Blackridge sucked in a breath.
“Yes,” Peter admitted slowly, dropping his head a little. “I had to pretend that the only reason I wished to court Miss Grey again was because I realized that I had feelings of affection within my heart that would not leave me. It was dishonest, yes, but I had very little choice.”
A long breath escaped from Lord Blackridge. “And you are convinced that your brother might be in danger?”
“I do not know!” Peter exclaimed, spreading his hands. “I cannot tell. I have no knowledge of where Edward might have gone and if he still lingers on the continent then my letters and a response thereafter will take much too long to return to me. The presence of his ring alongside the note concerns me greatly. How did this gentleman come across it? Why does he have it?” He shook his head. “I must take this threat with all seriousness. If I do not act, then I cannot be sure of what will occur. I cannot take that risk, Blackridge.”
Lord Blackridge sighed heavily and rubbed at his forehead. “I can see your predicament,” he admitted, offering Peter no hope. “Is there a way for you to discover who wrote the letter?”
