The next morning when Delia did not appear at breakfast, Rosewood made her excuses, telling the Marquess and the ladies Smythe-Dunston that her ladyship was suffering from a headache and therefore taking breakfast in her bed. He fumed silently, despite his outward good humor. Delia had disappeared and he didn’t know where she had gone. His usual servant spies had not seen her, nor heard her ring the bell for Amelia. He’d gone to her bedroom early in the morning, under the pretense of asking some question of household management of the lady of the house for the benefit of the guests, but saw that her bed was undisturbed. Then his valet, Phipps, confirmed that her ladyship and Amelia were nowhere to be found in the whole of Washburn Court, and that several mares, including Daisy, were missing from the stables.
Despite the obvious disadvantage of not knowing Delia’s whereabouts, Rosewood had discerned the distinct benefit of her absence for his plot to destroy her reputation. Delia’s absence at breakfast would only lend credibility to his story that she had spent the evening with the Marquess. Her ruination would be so complete, after he had delicately spread the story of her evening with the Marquess of Durham, that she would be forced to marry him out of sheer desperation when no one else would.
When the Marquess excused himself immediately after breakfast and Mr. Rosewood was left alone with Mrs. Smythe-Dunston and her daughter, he immediately took advantage of his opportunity once he saw the lady direct her daughter to go up to her room and ready her things. “Mrs. Smythe-Dunston,” Christopher began in a sober tone, “I must speak with you. As it is a very serious matter, I wonder if I may escort you to the library to discuss it?” The lady looked slightly taken aback, but certainly curious, as she rose from the table and told Daphne to await her in their chambers.
“My dear Mr. Rosewood, I do hope nothing dreadful has happened? You do seem so somber!” He suppressed a smirk.
“I am afraid, my dear lady, that it is quite a serious and sad matter about which I must speak with you. So distressing, in fact, that I requested that you come alone with me, outside of the hearing of your innocent daughter.” Mrs. Smythe-Dunston gasped.
“Good heavens! Mr. Rosewood, what has happened?” asked the lady as she followed him hurriedly out of the room.
“I am afraid it has to do with my poor cousin, Lady Delia. Mrs. Smythe-Dunston, you must realize that I impart to you his knowledge in the strictest confidence.” Mrs. Smythe-Dunston’s plump fingers pressed eagerly on Christopher’s arm.
“Is the young lady well, Mr. Rosewood?” she asked.
“She is not.” Christopher paused dramatically. “She is in her bedchamber. I wish you to be the first to know, Mrs. Smythe-Dunston, that I am to be congratulated. My dear Lady Delia has agreed to be my wife.”
“Mr. Rosewood! This is felicitous news indeed! I am all in awe!”
“Why, Mrs. Smythe-Dunston, I am entirely grateful to you for the good wishes. I only tell you this because we are to be married by special license as soon as it may be arranged and I wish you to make it known in town that Lady Delia is shortly to be my wife.”
“I am happy to reveal this happy information to anyone of your acquaintance, Mr. Rosewood. But may I ask why I am the beneficiary of such happy news? I confess our connection is quite slight.”
“Only because I am afraid that there might be talk regarding how quickly the marriage was arranged. It is not of course, an odd thing to be married at home, but…”
“And why must you do so in such a hurry, then, as to court gossip?”
“I am afraid that is the reason I must prevail upon your kindness, my dear lady. It is only that, last night…Lady Delia…did not spend the entirety of her resting hours in her own bed. I certainly cannot reveal to you her accomplice, however, I will assure you that, should word of this scandal leak out, as servants do gossip dreadfully, Lady Delia’s lover was not, in fact, a servant of this household.”
Mrs. Smythe-Dunston’s small eyes widened with shock and she gasped “She is ruined, Mr. Rosewood!” The lady’s bosom heaved as she waived her handkerchief in front of her face, fluttering the lace cap that sat upon her sausage curls. Mr. Rosewood affected a sigh and hung his head, before taking the lady’s hand.
“Mrs. Smythe-Dunston, I implore you, my poor cousin is not herself. She has been overwrought since her dear father’s death and is—to me—almost unrecognizable from her former self with grief. While that does not excuse her behavior, it certainly demands that we treat the situation with the utmost delicacy.” At this, Mrs. Smythe-Dunston made a motion of understanding, schooling her pink face from its expression of shock into what she undoubtedly intended to be one of deepest sympathy.
“Why, of course! If there is anything you wish me to…”
“I wish you to dampen whatever rumors you may hear as best you can,” he replied, knowing that his request would induce her to do the exact opposite. “I realize that I take a liberty in asking you to do such a thing, but I felt it my obligation to tell you something of the matter, as the thought of you discovering such shocking behavior was occurring right under your nose from a less altruistic source concerned me greatly.”
“But certainly! You did exactly as you ought, Mr. Rosewood. Such things cannot be hushed up. But you must take steps to limit the damage done…” Mrs. Smythe-Dunston simpered up at him.
“I have decided to do exactly that, madam. I will limit the damage done and marry the unfortunate girl without delay. I am afraid that otherwise, not only her name, but the names of all Ellsworths will be tainted with scandal and despised.” Mr. Rosewood managed a rather convincingly tormented look and Mrs. Smythe-Dunston rushed to pat his arm.
“Oh, but Mr. Rosewood! You would sacrifice yourself?”
“Certain things must be done when one’s ward is not quite herself. I could not in good conscience have the new Earl arrive to find his name blackened and his cousin disgraced.” Rosewood sat down, affecting a dejected air, on a settee covered in striped silk. “I confide in you, Mrs. Smythe-Dunston, because I know that you travel in the best circles and I wish you to make it clear to anyone who might hear gossip regarding my ward that she is, in fact, engaged to me. It will not, of course, allay all suspicion and gossip, but the damage may be mitigated when it is clear that she is to be my wife and remain in the country. Additionally, as you are aware of the reason for the quick marriage, I beg you to suggest it is not in fact a quick wedding, but the result of our mutual affection after months in close company. Only you can allay the vicious rumors certain to surface after news of the marriage becomes public.”
At the end of this speech, Mrs. Smythe-Dunston breathed her thanks to him for allowing her to be of service in dampening the raging fire of gossip sure to surround Lady Delia’s name and promised never to tell a soul that Mr. Rosewood had divulged the reason for his hasty marriage to his own ward. Mr. Rosewood assured her that he and Delia would marry as soon as possible by special license and then go abroad. Perhaps in a year or so, he told her, after Delia had born a child and forgotten her indiscretion, he might bring her to London.
Blessing her good fortune and already creating a mental list of people she would tell of the scandal immediately, Mrs. Smythe-Dunston left the library. Mr. Rosewood remained, secure in the knowledge that in two days’ time, his erstwhile guest would have informed the entire ton of Delia’s scandalous behavior and his cousin would be completely ruined, having no other choice but to marry him.
Chapter 8
Lady Delia and Amelia were exhausted after their pre-dawn flight from Washburn Court. They dared not stop in a posting-house, for fear they would be recognized, so they rode until they were practically incoherent from exhaustion the next afternoon. Lady Delia’s expectation of reaching town by mid-morning had been optimistic in the extreme, partly due to their inability to move quickly in the darkness and partly due to Amelia’s total lack of experience on horseback. The two ladies found a thicket of trees and dismounted, aching from the hours on horseback, just after nine in the
morning. The women had briefly wondered about taking the horses, but Delia had decided that the freedom of going off and on the roads and setting their own hours outweighed the safety of taking the post directly from Washburn Court, even with Amelia’s nonexistent horse skills. Instead, they rode to Bingham, and would take the post from that city, leaving the horses but sending a messenger back to Washburn to come collect them in a day or so, when the ladies could no longer be traced. Delia mourned the loss of Daisy but the expense of keeping a horse in town, let alone two, would certainly place too large a strain on her modest finances.
“I wonder if they are chasing us yet, my lady,” Amelia remarked as they sat, weak from lack of food and sleep, on a blanket and prepared to have a cold repast.
“I do hope not, Amelia!” said Lady Delia with an exhausted sigh, “We need time to get to London and hide ourselves. It’s not far—we should be there by late afternoon but I am so afraid they’ll catch up to us.” Delia stretched her tired legs and prepared to get back on the horse, as much as she wished she could avoid it. They had agreed upon a brief rest and some food before continuing on their journey.
“You do think that Mr. Rosewood will send people after us, don’t you, my lady?” Amelia asked.
“I am certain he will try to find me. I must simply disappear into the crowd in London…” A few tears of trepidation filled Delia’s eyes and she tilted her head back to hide them as she blinked rapidly. She felt tremendously guilty about dragging Amelia to London on an adventure with so many uncertainties. Amelia was a ladies’ maid, and had no experience with the sorts of things they would be forced to confront. To wit: their midnight horseback ride from Washburn. Amelia knew her lack of experience on a horse meant that she was not a good rider, but her absolute terror at riding in the dark had sent daggers of guilt to her heart. And now Delia was asking her to accompany her to a city with only the hope that they could find lodging…and support themselves… It would be unfair for Delia to let Amelia know how frightened she was when she knew that Amelia was counting on her to know how to manage.
“Oh, my lady, we will manage! I’m sure of it.”
“I know so, Amelia,” Lady Delia said. “I do know that we will.” Delia felt a bit guilty about not telling Amelia of her encounter with the Marquess, but for some reason she was unable to do so. She just wanted to get to London, hire a small house with the money she had saved of her allowances, and a bit she’d taken from her father’s study—money that her guardian hadn’t been able to find and confiscate. And she anticipated some additional income from the sales of her book. She only hoped she could finish the manuscript quickly, before the publisher lost interest. The acceptance letter was certainly kind, but it did not leave a lot of time for perfecting the story. She sighed and decided not to think about that until she had settled in the house. The sum she had saved and brought from Washburn was a decently large sum if they exercised economy and she looked forward to a level of independence she had never possessed in her short life as the privileged only daughter of an Earl.
On that hopeful note, her hunger assuaged by the fortifying food, and her body warmed by the sun, Delia knew she could get back on her horse and finish the trip.
Chapter 9
The previous evening, the Marquess had done his best at dinner to show no reaction to Mrs. Smythe-Dunston’s ridiculous rudeness, though, he noted, any lady with a daughter to marry could hardly be happy to be thrust into the company of the exquisite Lady Delia. He had stared at her longer than he ought. She was a beauty, he observed, with her shining hair and those unusual eyes. Her small, straight nose and high cheekbones were complimented by flawless white skin, which was not the result of cosmetics, as it continued down her slender neck and arms and to the tops of creamy white breasts, perfectly framed by the low square neckline of her gown.
There was something about Delia; something that set off her beauty, while making with to know her better. Was it the tragedy in her wide eyes? Had she been so attached to the late Earl? Her body seemed to radiate with tension when she spoke to her guardian but when those eyes were turned on him, she radiated with something else entirely. She would have no problem finding a husband, he thought, though, it somehow irked him to think of it. He had redoubled his efforts to concentrate on the soup and fish, resolving not to think about her deeply beautiful eyes anymore.
And then she had jumped into his bed. The very last complication he had expected. And his behavior, he knew, was inexcusable. But he was unused to purportedly virginal young ladies throwing themselves into bed with him; at least he was unused to their literally throwing themselves into bed with him, particularly ones that responded so eagerly to his kisses. Unable to sleep, Durham had spent an unpleasant night tossing and turning in the heat, until finally he resolved to leave Washburn Court as soon as he could politely take his leave on the morrow.
Early the next morning, the Marquess awakened to find a note on a tray next to his bed. It was from his butler at Evercrest, Weebold, requesting his presence at his country estate immediately. The Marquess arose and dressed quickly, wondering what had happened to produce such urgency in the person of Weebold, since the man generally did not disturb the Marquess while he visited friends. His estate manager needed little assistance, since the estate practically ran itself.
Dressing quickly, the Marquess wrote a hasty note to his host and his apologies to the ladies Smythe-Dunston. As furious as Mrs. Smythe-Dunston would certainly be, ladies would never dream of interfering with a gentleman’s business. Grateful to have an excuse to leave Washburn as soon as possible without having to escort any females back to London or any other locations, the Marquess rode furiously for home, wondering as he urged his stallion onward, if Lady Delia was regretting missing her lover last night. Her breasts had been so full and soft in his hands…her rose pink nipples responding to his mere breath as he bent to kiss her. Delia’s beautiful violet eyes had turned almost black when he had kissed her breast, nearly as black as they had looked when he furiously ordered her out of his room. Perhaps he had been too hasty; after all, what harm could he have done by allowing himself to go further? Her body was perfect for his; her tiny waist would fit squarely in his hands if he held her as she rode him.
Durham forced himself to stop. He decided he needed a new mistress. A young, beautiful and skilled mistress to take his mind off a young lady who was doubtless as spoiled as Miss Smythe-Dunston, and who also happened to jump into the beds of visiting gentlemen.
As the Marquess approached his estate, a stable lad who came to collect his horse informed him that his good friend Simon, Earl of Blackwell, had arrived the day before and was waiting for him in the study. Mason wondered if that was the reason Weebold had sent him the note. Or, perhaps, Weebold had somehow intuitively sensed how much his master had wished to escape Washburn.
“Durham, I’m glad you’re here at last. Have you honestly been holed up at Washburn Court this whole time?” Simon Blackwell came striding toward him, his broad shoulders flawlessly encased in a sapphire coat by Weston, London’s finest tailor.
“All this time? I was there only one night, but it seemed like an age. What brings you to Evercrest?” Durham strode into the library and sank into a cognac-colored leather chair. Weebold arrived immediately with brandy but the Marquess waved him off due to the early hour.
“I was up from London and trusted I would find you at home, after your well-publicized departure. You may contemplate my surprise at finding you not at home?” Lord Blackwell obviously meant that his reason for visiting was anything but innocent and meant for the Marquess’ ears only.
“Will you be staying, Simon?”
“If only you would invite me,” Blackwell said with a smirk.
“Very well. Thank you, Weebold. We shall dine early this evening—at six—with Harriet and Aunt Mary, if you would tell cook…?”
“Of course, my lord.” Weebold’s thick grey eyebrows did not rise even a quarter inch as he exited, knowing full
well that the Marquess was involved in activities he wished to keep secret.
“I’ve just spent an excessively taxing two days escorting two ladies of only the most casual acquaintance from London—a favor I am not eager to repeat. Forgive my short temper, should it surface.”
“And how were you compelled to undertake such a disagreeable task—no, do not tell me. I have no wish to re-live your poor choices.”
“Very wise, Simon. I collect from your choice to call on me without notice that something in the line of an emergency has occurred?”
“Regarding our smuggling operation…”
“I knew the day we agreed to include messages for the crown in those brandy barrels we were courting disaster,” said the Marquess grimly.
“It’s not a disaster yet, Mason,” said his friend, “only something we must watch for.”
“I’m shocked at this positive news.”
“To put it bluntly, I’ve received a letter from the our agent at the French estate. It appears that a British ship tried to pass itself off as one affiliated with our operation at the estate near Le Havre. It was sighted by our men.” Durham felt gooseflesh rise on his skin.
“Are you certain? Who could it be? Are there any possibilities?” The Earl shook his head as he leaned forward.
“I am convinced it is likely a lucky coincidence that the ship guessed the proper communication. However, our agent was quite logically concerned given that he sent the message to the both of us. I have not the faintest idea who could be impersonating our ships—or in fact how anyone else could even know what we are doing.” The Marquess brought his hands together and then ran them through his black hair, disturbing what little was left of his hair’s tidiness, which never approached the level of Grecian perfection achieved by his friend, Lord Blackwell. Weebold would have seen the missive and that explained the prompt summons, which he believed his butler was at pains to reveal upon his arrival, but instead entrusted the duty to Lord Blackwell.
A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) Page 4
