A Woman of Virtue

by Liz Carlyle

  Abruptly, he shoved the poker back into its stand with a harsh ringing sound and turned to take the seat opposite Lady Cecilia. “You know, do you not,” he softly began, “that Lord Delacourt is a particular friend of mine, all appearances to the contrary?”

  “So he has said,” replied the lady with a sniff.

  Slowly, Cole extended his hand. “But I am foremost a clergyman, and so you may be sure that I will do all within my power to help you—if you can bring yourself to trust me?”

  Lady Cecilia looked at the proffered hand suspiciously, and then, with a second little snuffle, she slid her small, cold fingers into it.

  Cole was vaguely alarmed. Despite the warm spring air, the girl was frozen. In shock, no doubt. He’d struck a tinder to the fire as soon as he’d seen her, pale, trembling, and looking so desperately alone in the middle of his drawing room. But it had done little to warm her.

  Gently, he squeezed her fingers. “My dear, you must tell me—who is responsible for you?”

  The girl’s deep blue eyes flared, wide and angry. “When last I checked, sir, I was responsible for myself.”

  Inwardly, Cole smiled. “What I mean, Lady Cecilia, is have you a family? A father?”

  Lady Cecilia’s eyes narrowed knowingly. “A man to look after me? Is that what you mean?” She gave a ladylike snort of disgust. “The answer is no. My father has been dead these twelve months past. I have only my elder brother, Harry, Lord Sands. But I am more apt to be looking after him, than he me.”

  Cole felt a wave of relief. Good. At least there was someone. “Then I daresay we ought to fetch him, ma’am,” said Cole calmly. “This is, you know, a very serious business.”

  “A very serious business?” echoed Lady Cecilia tremulously, jerking her hand from Cole’s. “You hardly need tell me that, sir! I was present when your friend Lord Delacourt so ruthlessly assaulted my—my person! And my brother is well aware of it, you may be sure. It was he who permitted me to be carted away from Newmarket in such a high-handed fashion.”

  Cole let his shoulders sag. Pensively, he rubbed his finger up and down the side of his nose. This was very bad indeed. “But why, ma’am, would your brother allow such a thing?”

  Lady Cecilia bristled. “Perhaps because he is a spineless idiot—?” she retorted. Then she, too, let her shoulders sag. “No, forgive me,” she said softly, pressing her fingertips to her temple as if her head ached. “That really is not true. It was just that Harry had no notion what ought to be done.”

  “What ought to be done?”

  “Well, it isn’t every day a young man sees his sister being pawed by a drunken and notoriously dissolute lord. And when Delacourt exploded, and accused Harry of attempting to ensnare him—”

  “Ensnare him?” interjected Cole sharply. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Lady Cecilia lifted her chin haughtily. “It would seem your friend Delacourt thinks himself worthy of being trapped into marriage by a pair of near penniless orphans. For my part, I have never been so insulted.” She waved a hand wildly about the room. “Indeed, there I was, simply enjoying a day at the track with my brother, when I was viciously and relentlessly assaulted by a man I have scarce heard tell of.”

  Cole took a long, slow sip of his sherry, steeling himself for a difficult question. “You must forgive me, ma’am,” he finally said, “but I feel compelled to ask—just what were you doing in the Newmarket stables? And in a state of... what I understand to have been...” He strove to look very grave. “Well, suffice it to say that the track stables are no place for a young lady in any state of dress.”

  Lady Cecilia looked momentarily contrite. “Oh, it was Harry, you see. The debts. Our estate.” Her huge blue eyes fluttered up at Cole, but he did not understand. So he kept staring at her rather pointedly, forcing her to continue. He was afraid he had to get at the truth, even at the cost of a few tears.

  Lady Cecilia sighed and began again. “I mean to say, Mr. Amherst, that my brother is very young. And possessed of the worst sort of luck, too—not that it’s his fault!” She shook her head full of burnished curls emphatically. “Indeed, it runs in our family. And of course, both Harry and I are underage, as it happens.”

  “Both underage?” Worse and worse, thought Cole.

  “Yes, I fear so. For I am just turned eighteen, and my brother not quite twenty-one. And our trustee—our Uncle Reggie—is very hard on Harry. Often justifiably, to be sure. But this time, it was a game of hazard with that horrid Mr. Waldron. Harry was quite sick with desperation. And so, I did the only thing I knew to do, the only thing I thought might make some money—”

  Cole gave a horrified gasp. “Oh, my dear!”

  Suddenly, Lady Cecilia laughed, a rich, gorgeous, bubbly sound. “Oh, heavens no, Mr. Amherst! It was our horse! Sands’ Setting Star—a sure-fire winner in the fifth.” She leaned intently forward in her chair. “Papa bred her himself, at Holly Hill—that’s our estate near Upper Brayfield—and she’s the only stroke of good fortune my father ever had. She runs like a bolt of lightning, and the winnings would have cleared all Harry’s gaming losses and kept that awful Mr. Waldron from calling upon Uncle Reggie, as he had threatened to do.”

  Cole leaned incrementally nearer, resting his elbows on his knees. “I confess, Lady Cecilia, you have captured the whole of my attention. Pray continue.”

  The girl began to pick nervously at the skirts of her carriage dress. “Well, sir, you see, it was like this. Poor Jed—that’s Papa’s jockey—ate a sliver of smoked mackerel at a very disreputable-looking inn at Bottisham last night.”

  “In Bottisham—?” Cole encouraged.

  “Yes, you see, the outlying villages are considerably cheaper, if one wants a room or a meal. Anyway, I told Jed to have the mutton pie, as Harry and I did. But he eats like a bird before a race, and—”

  Cole cleared his throat sharply. It was dreadfully clear where this was going. “And so your jockey was taken ill, was he not? And when your brother could not find another, he came to you? And because you are very short...” Cole let his words trail away.

  Lady Cecilia lowered her eyes in embarrassment. “Yes—but I’m a bruising rider, sir. Indeed, we’re a little short of staff at Holly Hill just now, so I work with Jed. He says my touch is almost as good as his, and we are nearly of a size.” Suddenly, she jerked her head up again, tossing the flame-gold curls back off her face, her eyes at last brightening. “And I won, too! No one even noticed that it was not Jed who crossed the finish line.”

  Doubtingly, Cole let his eyes drift over her milky skin and distinctive hair. One little curl exposed, and a discerning eye would have known. “My dear child—are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She paused, her dark, angular brows abruptly drawing together. “At least, I hope they did not. I daresay I could be disqualified. And I should hate above all things for Harry to be unable to collect his vowels, after all the trouble I’ve been put to.”

  After all the trouble she’d been put to—? Cole wanted to rail at her until the rafters rattled. She had been compromised! Probably ruined! And still, it seemed she was more concerned for her brother than for herself.

  Ruthlessly, Cole tamped down his frustration. “Your concern for your brother is admirable, ma’am, but I believe we have a more pressing concern. You have been compromised, and Lord Delacourt has offered to make things right. He wishes to marry you. Indeed, he seems rather intent upon it.”

  When she drew breath to argue, he held up a staying hand. “Please, hear me out. Delacourt shall soon realize—indeed, I daresay he already does—that there was no... no ensnarement at all. In his heart, he is a good man. As a member of the clergy, I feel morally bound to suggest you set aside your distress and accept his offer.”

  Resolutely, she shook her head. “No, Mr. Amherst, I will not. And as to being compromised, I was not precisely... that is to say, not completely...”

  Discreetly, Cole gave a little cough. He understood, but he was deeply uncomfortable. �
�Lady Cecilia, I must ask, did you really... that is to say, when Lord Delacourt kissed you, were you at all... I mean, David is generally thought a very striking man, and if you found him in any way...” At last, Cole surrendered, unable to get the question out.

  It hardly mattered. Lady Cecilia’s face was flaming with humiliation. “Very striking, indeed,” she bitterly admitted. “But his faults are legendary. As to mine, I should rather we not speak of them. I shan’t wed Lord Delacourt. Can we not leave it at that? Please?”

  Slowly, Cole nodded. And in truth, he was almost glad she had refused to marry. Despite David’s rather shocking alacrity to wed this poor child, Cole was not at all sure that Jonet’s brother would make any woman a good husband, let alone under these circumstances.

  But one thing was all too clear. Could they but see past their righteous indignation, these two were at least a little attracted to each other. And perhaps it was something more. Or something worse. A strange, obsessive light had burned in David’s eyes. Moreover, Lady Cecilia was as angry with herself as she was with David, though she was probably too inexperienced to understand why.

  Cole wondered what to make of it all. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps, as she said, this was simply a matter best not pursued. He put his glass aside and pensively steepled his fingers. “Very well, ma’am, I must bow to your wishes. But you must understand, when rumor of this debacle leaks out, you will have been compromised, regardless of how you see it.”

  Again, Lady Cecilia shook her head, even more vigorously. “No one shall hear of it! Harry certainly shan’t say a word, and I would trust Jed with my very life. Moreover, if Delacourt is the gentleman you seem to think him, then he certainly will keep quiet, too, will he not?” Her eyes full of questions, she lifted her gaze to his.

  “I can personally guarantee that not one word will ever pass his lips,” said Cole grimly. “But are you sure, ma’am? Are you perfectly sure that you were seen by no one else?”

  Lady Cecilia looked away, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “Well, no doubt I was observed leaving with Lord Delacourt in his barouche,” she finally answered. “But is that so very bad, do you think? After all, it was broad daylight, and we were alone for just a few hours.”

  For long, uncertain moments, Cole tapped one finger against the bowl of his wine glass. Perhaps, had they taken but a short journey through her home village, under the auspices of her parents... Yes, perhaps then she might have a point. But they had not been with her parents. She was an orphan. And her brother apparently hadn’t sense enough to come along.

  Finally, Cole spoke. “Perhaps there is a way to mitigate the risk. Tomorrow, David will announce your engagement.” At her squawk of outrage, he held up one hand. “No, no, dear girl! Do let me finish. My wife will say that you are a particular friend of hers—and by the end of the day, you no doubt will be. Moreover, if your father was a gamester—” Cole looked at her for confirmation.

  Grimly, Lady Cecilia nodded, still biting hard at her lip.

  “Then undoubtedly my wife’s late husband knew him well. It will surprise no one to learn that the two of you are acquainted. With a few careful hints on Jonet’s part, the gossips will assume that you and David met here at Elmwood as our guests and fell at once in love.”

  Lady Cecilia looked doubtful. “Really, Mr. Amherst—!”

  Cole cut her off. “But of course, David being David, you will soon see the error of your ways and give him the jilting he so richly deserves. And since society loves to cast Lord Delacourt in the role of scorned suitor, the gossips will seize upon it with relish.”

  Carefully, he studied Lady Cecilia’s expression. “Will that do, ma’am, do you think?” he asked softly.

  Slowly, the girl nodded, but she did not look at all pleased. In truth, for all her brave words, she still looked terrified. And dreadfully alone.

  Inwardly, Cole sighed. It was the best of a bad bargain. Abruptly, he stood and extended her his hand. “Then come, my dear. Let us go find David and Jonet. We have a betrothal to announce.”

  Chapter One

  The Incorrigible Henrietta Healy

  February 1824

  The Countess of Walrafen—who in a long-ago life had been known as Cecilia Markham-Sands—was newly possessed of a most fashionable villa in Park Crescent. Mr. Nash’s latest spurt of architectural genius boasted every modern convenience, including flushing lavatories, an elegantly stuccoed façade, and pale yellow paint so sumptuously applied it looked like butter running down the walls.

  There was nothing of the old or the venerated about Park Crescent, though the earldom of Walrafen was both. In fact, to her ladyship’s way of thinking, the Walrafen title was so old and stuffy it was well nigh to moldering. She could smell the musty self-righteousness drifting all the way across Marylebone.

  The official London address of the earldom was situated deep in the heart of Mayfair, in an imposing brick town house in Hill Street, from which her ladyship had taken her congé as soon as her elderly husband had breathed his last at the ripe old age of seven-and-fifty. Her stepson Giles, two years her senior, lived there alone now and was very welcome to do so.

  For her part, the Countess of Walrafen was the unpretentious descendant of a title even older than that of her late husband, a fact which had always needled him a bit, and for no good reason that her ladyship could see. What good was a coronet, she often asked herself, when the generations of Markham-Sands men had been—and still were—such a luckless and clueless lot?

  Indeed, the first Earl of Sands had been ennobled by old William the Red himself. In a reign pock-marked by avariciousness, arrogance, and atheism, the Sands family had been one of the few Saxon dynasties that had not only survived but also prospered in the Norman yoke.

  And that circumstance had, so far as Lady Walrafen could determine, been the last bit of fortuity to befall her ancestors. After the War of the Roses, most of their land had been seized. During the Dissolution, they had been faithful papists, and following the rise of Bloody Mary, they had somehow become staunch Protestants. Sometime in the seventeenth century, they had spread their ill luck to the moneyed Markham family, by means of a financially motivated marriage.

  And following that, the succeeding noblemen of the Markham-Sands dynasty had managed to situate themselves on the wrong side of every political conflict, civil disturbance, cockfight, dog scrap, horse race, and bear baiting which came their way, all of it culminating with the Divine Right of Kings debacle, which they had assiduously supported, and the Restoration, which they had not.

  Cecilia sighed aloud. She had never understood that bit of perversity.

  All she had understood, and from a very young age, was that it fell to her to look out for both herself and her misbegotten elder brother, the current Earl of Sands. Until her sister-in-law Julia had joined their household and taken that little job off her hands. Cecilia still wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but at least Julia’s subtle pressure had propelled her out of the family brick pile and into a wedding dress.

  At that recollection, Cecilia sighed and leaned a little closer to her dressing mirror. Oh, was that a wrinkle at the corner of her right eye? Indeed it was. And was that another on the left? Well. At least her life held some consistency. At least her wrinkles matched.

  She took up her hairbrush, then thumped it back down again, staring pensively across the dressing table full of bottles and vials. Cecilia simply could not escape the dreadful feeling that her life had ended even before it had begun. The first anniversary of her husband’s death was now six months gone. Yet here she was, at the grand old age of four-and-twenty, unable to shake the sensation of being in deep mourning. And why? Had she loved him?

  No, not as a husband.

  Did she miss him?

  No, not greatly, but—

  Suddenly, a piercing shriek rang out from her dressing room. Etta!

  Cecilia let her face fall forward into her hands. Lord, what had the girl done now?

&nb
sp; At that moment, Etta emerged from the dressing room holding a length of emerald green sarcenet before her face, peering straight through the big brown hole in the middle of it. Even through the hole, Lady Walrafen could see that tears were already rolling down Etta’s narrow face.

  “Oh lor, Lady Walrafen!” the maid squalled, rolling her damp eyes dramatically. “Look ‘ere what I’ve done! Yer ortter ‘ave me whipped, and that’s a fact. Yer ortter ‘ave me skinned, that’s what—then ship me right back to the King’s Arms t’make a livin’ on me tail.”

  Cecilia managed a smile. “It’s perfectly all right, Etta. I shall wear the blue silk.”

  But as usual, the maid did not listen. “I just put the iron down for the veriest wee second, and now look!” Etta shook the scorched sarcenet for emphasis. “Look! And what you’d be wantin’ with a dresser the likes of me, mum, is more’n I’ll ever know. I’m too witless to iron a little bit of fluff like this—” Again, she rolled her watery eyes and shook the ruined shawl. “And I reckon I’m not apt to learn, neither.”

  At that, Cecilia rose from her stool and snatched the green sarcenet from her maid’s hands. “Now, just hush, Etta!” she commanded with an impatient stamp of her foot. “I’ll not have such talk, do you hear? It’s a silk shawl, for pity’s sake! I’ve a dozen just like it. Now, stop crying and stand up straight! Who will believe in you, if you don’t believe in yourself?”

  “Oh, very well!” Etta gave a last dramatic sniff. “I’ll fetch the blue. But I’m telling you straight out now, it don’t look near so good as this green. And I mean for you to look your best when you go to that Mrs. Rowland’s sore-ay tonight, since you know bloody well—”

  “Perfectly well,” corrected her ladyship gently.

  “Perfectly well,” echoed Etta without missing a beat, “that old high-in-the-instep Giles’ll be watchin’ your every twitch.”

  Cecilia watched as Etta, still chattering, hastened into the dressing room, pitched the ruined shawl into one corner, and began to shake out the blue silk evening gown, all without pausing for breath. “And d’ye know, Lady Walrafen, I sometimes suspicion but what ‘e ain’t got it a little hot for you, stepson or no. Don’t mean to say ‘e likes it none too good—but there! A fellow don’t always get to pick what pricks his—er, his fancy, if yer takes my meaning.”