by M. C. Beaton
He backed toward the door, holding the pistol very steady.
“She came of her own free will,” growled Sir Egbert. “That’s what you get by having your ward educated by that whore, Simpkin.”
“You do not have any hold over poor Miss Simpkin any more, Truebury,” said Lord Charles. “She told me the whole nasty, sorry story. But I think I will take her something to remember you by.” He walked back and twitched the large diamond pin from Sir Egbert’s stock.
“Come, Patricia,” said Lord Charles, his voice harsh with worry. “If either of these monsters has tried to deflower you, I will shoot them on the spot.”
“No,” said Patricia, swaying against him. “They put me out on an island in the lake and said they would leave me there until I decided to marry Geoffrey Truebury.”
“Then let us go.”
Patricia shivered, her teeth chattering. “My clothes are upstairs.”
“Then go and fetch them. I will wait here.”
Patricia ran all the way, weak as she was, frightened that some monster footman would leap out of a closet and attack her. She bundled her clothes back into the bandbox and dragged it back downstairs as fast as she could.
“Do you not have your carriage with you?” asked Patricia as they walked down the drive.
“It’s at the gates. I knew if they had you here, they would hide you if they heard my arrival. But I do not have any servants with me. I was anxious to avoid any scandal.”
“I don’t care.” Patricia shivered. “I cannot believe I am safe. They may come after us.”
“Nonsense. They would not dare.”
“I must tell you what happened… how I came to be so silly,” panted Patricia, trying to keep up with his long strides.
He stopped and looked down at her, his eyes glinting in the starlight. “My love,” he said softly, “you can tell me everything over the nearest, hottest supper.”
The table cover had been removed and bowls of fresh fruit and nuts studied their reflections in the polished mahogany of the dining table. Patricia and Lord Charles had dined at The Star and Garter in Richmond after Patricia had been fussed over by the maidservants, who had been told miss had been attacked by vicious footpads while out walking and thrown in the Thames.
“Now, Patricia,” said Lord Charles, “the servants have retired and left us alone at last. What happened? Why did you let a monster like Truebury take you away? I can hardly believe he dragged you off.”
“When I knew you were disgusted with me,” said Patricia, “I could not bear to stay in your house any longer. Mr. Truebury called by chance. He seemed harmless if obnoxious—too weak to be a real villain. I asked him if he knew of any lady who might be glad to have me as a companion for a few weeks. He said his mother lived at Richmond and would be glad to entertain me.
“Oh, it all seemed so innocent. I packed a bandbox and met him in his carriage at the far side of the square. He behaved very well on the journey. I felt uneasy when I arrived at the house because of the atmosphere. And there were no female servants. Mr. Truebury, the son, said he would row me out to an island to see a folly. When we were there, he said he was going to make sure the boat was securely tied, but when I went to look for him, he had pushed off. He said I might stay there until I promised to marry him. He must be desperate for money.”
“His father has plenty,” said Lord Charles dryly, “but he is a skinflint and, I believe, had told Geoffrey he would no longer meet his gambling debts and suggested marriage to you as a means of his son’s gaining money.”
“Oh. Well, I was frightened and I cannot swim. Like a fool I had told Geoffrey that. I set fire to the temple—”
“You did what?”
“I set fire to the temple, and a fat lot of good it turned out to be since even you did not notice the blaze.”
“I was only determined to save you. I looked neither to right nor left.”
“In any case,” went on Patricia, “I also thought if I found I could not learn to swim, I could return to the fire and dry my clothes. Swimming appears to be a very hard thing to master with one lesson and I thought I would drown. But Geoffrey did not know—and I found out—that the water is not very deep and I was able to wade across.
“I was about to make my way down the drive to safety when the footman came flying through the window and I heard your voice.”
“I thought you were a ghost when I saw you standing there,” said Lord Charles.
“Were you much hurt?” asked Patricia.
“Not very. That footman managed to land a good punch before I threw him out. Then Geoffrey dragged out a pistol and tried to shoot me. I do hope I did break his wrist.”
A silence fell between them. Their private dining room overlooked the Thames. Water chuckled beneath the windows.
“The… the revenge, Lord Charles,” ventured Patricia at last. “It was part of my childhood, part of a fantasy. All the time I was in Boston, you were The Wicked Guardian out of a Gothic novel.”
“I understand,” he said gently. “I bitterly regret my own behavior, for it means we must marry.”
“I don’t want to must marry,” wailed Patricia tearfully and ungrammatically. “No one knows what really happened. I could say you came to my bedroom to give me a lecture. I don’t want to have to marry you.”
Patricia rose, knocking back her chair, and fled from the room.
Lord Charles cursed fluently under his breath. He should have waited until she had had a good night’s sleep and then put the matter to her reasonably and sensibly.
He rose and went to her bedroom, but the room was empty. Suddenly frightened, he ran down the stairs and out of the inn. It was very dark, but he could see the glimmer of the pale green gown she had worn at dinner a little way along the path by the river.
He walked toward her as quietly as possible, wondering desperately what to say. If marriage to him was so abhorrent, then he would need to let her go. His side hurt where the butler had punched him. He felt battered and bruised and infinitely weary.
He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She trembled and leaned back against him and closed her eyes.
“Patricia,” he said softly, “you do not need to marry me. I will do what I can to make sure there is not any scandal. Please do not be upset. You have been through a dreadful experience. Return with me now and go to bed. Everything will seem better in the morning.”
Patricia turned and faced him. She seemed to be summoning up the last of her courage. “Then kiss me good night,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“If we are not to be wed, then I should not kiss you,” he said sadly.
“A guardian may kiss his ward.”
He tilted up her chin and kissed her very gently on the lips. He made to draw away, but she wound her arms tightly about him and buried her fingers in the thick hair above his collar.
“Patricia,” he said with a mixture of gladness and wonder in his voice. “Oh, Patricia.” He kissed her savagely and passionately and then gave her a little shake.
“And that, Miss Patricia Patterson,” he said, “is why we must marry.”
“Charles, do you love me?”
“With all my heart.”
“I love you so terribly, Charles. When I thought you hated me, I was sure my heart would break.”
“Then we had better be married as soon as possible, before I do any more of this… and this… and this…”
They returned to London on the following day, having agreed to be married in a month’s time.
Miss Simpkin was in a twittering state of apprehension when they arrived back from Richmond. She had been waiting hourly in a strung-up nervous condition, dreading to learn that some horrible fate had befallen Patricia, dreading to hear of her own dismissal. She burst into noisy tears of relief on seeing her beloved Patricia and then cried again when Lord Charles invited her to the wedding.
He presented her with the diamond pin he had taken from Sir
Egbert, remarking dryly that he was sure Sir Egbert had meant to give her a present all along.
It seemed to Patricia as if she was immediately plunged into a hectic round of shopping and arrangements. In the days following the announcement of the wedding a few carping members of society spoke darkly about the sinister haste of the marriage, but the rest vied eagerly for invitations.
Patricia and Lord Charles had decided to spend a lengthy honeymoon in Boston. Their trunks had to be packed and sent on ahead to the ship at Bristol, and so, a week before the wedding, Patricia, aided by Miss Simpkin, was trying to decide which clothes she should pack.
“Oh, do take this pretty muslin,” said Miss Simpkin, holding up a dainty white gown. “It is monstrous exciting the way everything has worked out for the best—although it does distress me that you, dear Patricia, found out that I was a Fallen Woman.”
“A most unfortunate lady, not a fallen woman,” said Patricia gently. “I told you how very ruthless both Sir Egbert and his son were. They will not trouble you again. People can be very cruel and it is all too easy for an unfortunate woman to lose her reputation. Some are even hinting that Lord Charles was forced to marry me because we spent the night at the inn at Richmond. We could not tell anyone why we were both in Richmond because Lord Charles said he did not want any gossip or scandal or court cases. It appears the Trueburys have left the country, but still, the whispers and rumors do hurt.”
“It is only the jealous ones who have not been invited to the wedding who complain,” said Miss Simpkin, “and no one listens to them. Also, it might have come out, were there an investigation, that you went willingly with Mr. Truebury. It is better this way.”
Patricia laughed. “You sound just like Nanny Evans—‘Lord Charles knows best.’”
“Well, it appears he does, my love,” said Miss Simpkin. “Such generosity and understanding! I was so sure I would be turned off without a character.”
Nanny Evans had arrived, prepared to enjoy the wedding, but fully expecting to accompany Patricia on the honeymoon as well. When she was not asleep which was fortunately often, she followed Patricia about, convinced the young girl she had nursed was still in need of constant care.
“Oh, Simpers,” sighed Patricia. “I will be so glad when I can be alone with my husband. No, I do not mean I want to get rid of you, it is just that this house always seems to be bulging at the seams with members of the ton, hell-bent on getting an invitation to the wedding. We only planned to invite a few people, Lord Charles’s sisters and people like that, but everyone keeps calling, bearing such expensive gifts that we do not have the heart to tell them they cannot come.”
“Including that creature Sinclair,” sniffed Miss Simpkin. “What a horror she turned out to be.”
“Miss Sinclair was misled, that is all. She is to marry Mr. Johnson, as you know, and he is an estimable man.”
“Indeed,” said the little governess crossly. “It appears the wicked do flourish like the green bay tree.”
“I draw the line at inviting Miss Chalmers,” said Patricia. “I never want to see that woman again.”
“I doubt if Lord Charles wants to see her again either,” said Miss Simpkin, “and that is all that matters. Rumor has it Miss Chalmers is already being courted by some gentleman of the church, although I have not yet learned his name.”
“They will probably suit each other very well,” said Patricia tartly. “They can both sit and moralize and preach and make everyone quite miserable. I cannot quite hate Miss Chalmers as much as I feel I should. I am so very lucky, it makes me wish well of the whole world—or nearly the whole world,” she added, thinking of the Trueburys. “When I think I nearly ruined my reputation irrevocably with that drunken young captain. I wonder what ever became of him.”
“My dear! The strangest thing. I had quite forgot to tell you,” said Miss Simpkin. “He called the day you disappeared and I was so overset I could hardly listen to what he was saying. I saw him alone—at least I had enough wit for that. I was so afraid he meant to make trouble.”
“And did he… want to make trouble?” asked Patricia nervously.
“Not a bit of it. He was back on leave from the wars and he called to say how sorry he was about that awful business and how it had been on his conscience. It turned out his commanding officer knew he was the culprit but did not want to lose a good soldier. I am afraid the poor captain got hundreds of lashes and nearly died anyway. He left this letter for you. I still have it in my reticule,” said Miss Simpkin, scrabbling about in a large droopy velvet sack.
Patricia took the letter from her and tore it up into little pieces.
“But why did you not read it?” exclaimed Miss Simpkin. “I am sure it was vastly romantic.”
“And I am equally sure Lord Charles would be furious if he found it. No, Simpers, some things are better left unread.”
“Patricia!”
Lord Charles appeared in the doorway.
“I wish to have a word with you in private.”
Patricia rose to her feet, and Miss Simpkin prepared to accompany her.
“No, Miss Simpkin,” said Lord Charles. “We have been faithfully chaperoned by you since our return, but what I have to say to Patricia is for her ears alone.”
“Is anything the matter?” asked Patricia, looking anxiously up into his set face.
“Yes,” he said curtly. “Come along.”
Patricia walked nervously with him out of the room, a lump like ice in her stomach. “He has decided he does not love me,” she thought.
He led the way downstairs, calling over his shoulder to the butler who was standing in the hall, “We shall be in the library. See we are not disturbed.”
He held open the door for Patricia, followed her into the room, and turning, locked the door.
“Oh, what is wrong, Charles?” cried Patricia. “You look so angry and stern.”
He walked over to the fireplace and put one booted foot on the fender, leaned his arm on the mantel, and looked down into the flames of the small fire that was burning on the hearth.
“Since our return from Richmond, Patricia,” he said heavily, “I have not been alone with you once. I have observed the conventions very strictly.”
“Yes, Charles,” whispered Patricia.
“Every time I return to this house, my drawing room seems to be full of posturing jackanapes paying court to you.”
“Only members of the ton anxious to secure an invitation to the wedding,” said Patricia. “We are all the crack.”
“And does that matter so much to you?” he asked huskily.
“The only thing that matters, Charles,” said Patricia with a catch in her voice, “is you. I cannot bear to think you might not love me.”
He turned to face her and held out his arms. “That, my little love,” he said softly, “is my fear too.”
“Oh, Charles,” cried Patricia, running into his arms. “Kiss me. I am so weary of being conventional.”
He caught her to him and kissed her fiercely and passionately and then long and languorously until he felt her tremble in his arms.
He put her away from him and said shakily, “Soon I will have you in my bed and in my arms and all these noisy chattering people will not be able to plague us or make me worry about our love. Oh, Patricia, my only love.”
“Your only love? You keep a miniature of a vastly beautiful woman beside your bed, as I recall.”
“Not content with putting stuffed hedgehogs in my bed, you also pried into my love life. No, my love, that is a miniature of my mother.”
Patricia gave a happy little sigh and raised her lips to his.
“No, Patricia, do not kiss me again. I can barely wait for our wedding night as it is.”
She pressed her body against his and wound her fingers in the thick hair which curled over his collar at the back of his neck.
He lifted her up in his arms, his green eyes glinting down at her flushed face and the swell of her bosom.
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“My sweeting,” he said, tightening his arms about her. “You seem determined to turn me into a wicked guardian after all!”
Part IV
Quadrille
For Eileen and Tom Kerr
with love
Chapter 1
“I do not want to go to Clarissa’s,” said Lady Mary Challenge, standing beside the open window to try to catch a breath of cool air.
“You will do as you are told, madam,” said her husband, Colonel, Lord Hubert Challenge, from his position in front of the looking glass.
Mary stifled a little sigh. So it had begun and so it would go on in this loveless marriage. He issued the commands, she must obey. She turned and surveyed her husband who was shrugging his muscular shoulders into his evening jacket. The room was lit by one branch of candles on the mantelpiece and his reflection looked almost satanic in their wavering light. It was a handsome if swarthy face with a strong chin and a firm mouth. He had a patrician nose and large, beautiful brown eyes, very well spaced and ornamented with long thick lashes which detracted not one whit from his overpowering air of masculinity. His thick black hair sprung in two wings from his high forehead and his tall figure moved with athletic grace as he turned to face her.
Mary turned away. She did not want to read the expression in his eyes, for she knew she looked dowdy. Her dress of heavy silk was overfussy, giving her immature figure an awkward air. She had a smooth madonna-like face with an almost translucent skin and two large gray eyes and a quantity of fine, light brown hair, but it was her shy cringing air which made her appear dowdy, rather than her unfashionable clothes.
“I told you before that Lady Clarissa is an old friend of mine,” said Lord Hubert, turning away from her and searching through the card rack for the correct invitation.
“All Brussels knows of your friendship with Clarissa,” thought Mary, but she did not have the courage to say it aloud.
