A Woman of Virtue

by Liz Carlyle

  Had her father believed that God would forgive him if he sent such a letter to his only son? No, Kildermore had helped no one but himself by his actions. He had gone on to his great reward with his conscience unburdened, leaving David with an awful knowledge: that the tainted blood of a dissolute Scottish rogue pulsed through his veins, instead of the noble Norman blood of the man who had raised him.

  But life was not fair, and one wasted time grieving over it. Abruptly, she pulled back from her brother’s embrace. “Was there ever a time, David, when you felt yourself on the verge of true happiness? What would it take? Can you tell me?”

  He jerked her back to his chest and let his chin rest atop her head. It was as if he refused to look her in the eyes. “Ah, Jonet,” he said, the words soft and fraught with despair. “I hardly think I know.”

  For long moments, the book room fell silent as David listened to his sister’s low, rhythmic breathing. Against his chest, Jonet felt warm and comforting. But it was not enough. In truth, it never had been.

  Why did she torture him so? Jonet knew better than anyone why he ought not wed. His estates, his titles, and yes, even his very blood, felt alien to him. He was not Delacourt. He was nothing. Not noble, not titled, and barely even respectable. Though, admittedly, the latter was his own fault.

  Still, how did a man properly explain such an unfortunate bloodline to a prospective bride? What if she then refused him? Or betrayed the confidence? But the alternative was worse. For how could a man wed a woman without being honest about who and what he was?

  There had been an extraordinary situation once—a situation in which he’d been almost compelled to marry because of a dreadful misunderstanding. But as dreadful as that misunderstanding had been, and as shoddily as he had behaved, his actions had not been as intentionally wrong as courting a bride while willfully misrepresenting the blood which coursed through his veins. Not when it was the blood her children would share.

  But in the end, he had not been compelled to marry, despite his willingness to make reparation. He had misunderstood, it seemed. They had been victims of a tasteless prank. The lady had not wanted him at all. So he’d silenced Wally Waldron by thrashing him within an inch of his life—a rare, bare-knuckled brawl it had been—and continued his efforts to make amends to the girl.

  And yet, he’d been a fool, perhaps, to persist when all reason was past. She had turned out to be colder and less forgiving than he had hoped. Arrogant, really. She had insulted him, belittled his efforts, and, ultimately, she’d made him a laughingstock.

  But at least he had escaped a leg shackle. And of course, he was grateful. Certainly, he would not now seek another one. It was a risk he had no wish to take.

  Oh, he knew—yes, he knew that something was missing from his life. But it most assuredly wasn’t marital bliss. Still, he was thirty-two years old, and the years since Jonet’s second marriage had been hard ones, for he’d somehow lost his grounding.

  Tucked away in the country with her beloved second husband, Jonet had found true happiness and had begun a wonderful new family. But David, deprived of his best friend—indeed, his moral compass and the only person whom he’d ever really taken care of—had found himself painfully alone. David had somehow let himself run to dissolution. And he had done it quite deliberately, too, in some futile hope of outrunning the darkness which chased him ever more intently with every passing year.

  He was glad for Jonet. Truly happy. And she was right. It really was time to stop wasting his life. The certainty of it was dawning on him. A man could not spend the whole of his life flitting from one elegant drawing room to the next—as well as a few less reputable places—without becoming jaded and useless.

  And yet, he felt thwarted, as if an invisible wall had been thrown up in his face by forces he could neither see nor understand. But to whom could he turn for advice? Certainly not Jonet, for she already felt irrationally responsible for the whole bloody mess.

  Certainly not his mother; it would crush her to realize the depth and breadth of the hatred he felt for his circumstances. Cole? Perhaps. Though in his more honest moments, David could admit that he was deeply jealous of his brother-in-law.

  Yes, he envied the man his quiet confidence and steadfast restraint. And yet, David often found himself aching to talk with Cole—and about something less mundane than horses, hounds, and the weather. But he could never quite get out the words, for they always caught on his damnable pride before they left his mouth.

  Inwardly, David sighed and set Jonet a little away from him. There was no point in all this introspection. Nothing good ever came of it.

  Suddenly, Nanna threw open the door and presented him with a reprieve. A tide of little girls burst in, surging about David’s feet in a froth of white nightclothes.

  “David, David!” Six-year-old Arabella threw one arm about his thigh and looked up at him. “My toof fewel out!” she announced, pointing inside her gaping mouth. “Can I have a guinea for it?”

  Arabella was the very picture of her mother with her slick raven tresses and flashing eyes. “Heavens, what a greedy little Scot you are!” proclaimed David, grabbing her up and lifting her high in the air. In response, Davinia tried to clamber up his leg. She looked very like her father, with a wild mane of blonde hair and brilliant golden eyes. David fell back into the nearest chair, taking both girls with him.

  “Bella cried when it came out,” tattled four-year-old Davinia, grunting as she scrabbled onto his left thigh.

  “Did not!” protested Arabella, scowling across David’s lap.

  “Did too!” challenged Davinia, turning her warmest smile on David and raising her lips to his ear. “Have you brought my pony?”

  Alone on the floor, and clearly feeling neglected, little Fiona fell back on her rump and burst into tears.

  “Davinia!” Jonet chided, leaning down to pick up Fiona. “Don’t carry tales! And don’t wheedle gifts from your godfather!”

  “Hush, goose!” David whispered to Davinia. “You weren’t to say a word yet. Now! Why do we not move to the sofa, where we may all sit together? Your mother wishes to tell a new bedtime story.”

  “Do I?” asked Jonet archly, bouncing Fiona on her hip. “Which one would that be?”

  David scooped up Davinia in one arm and Arabella in the other. “Oh, surely you must remember my dear—? It is the one about the little girl who kept poking her nose into other people’s business, until it somehow got chopped off.”

  “Eeeew!” said Arabella appreciatively. “That sounds like a good one!”

  ———

  Lord Walrafen’s equipage rolled up Portland Place and made the sharp turn into Park Crescent at precisely two minutes before the appointed hour. With her hair perfectly coifed and the blue silk neatly pressed, Cecilia stood in her foyer and watched Giles’s footman put down the steps.

  She felt a strange, sinking sensation as her stepson alit from the carriage. She had almost hoped he would be unable to accompany her to the Rowlands’ tonight. After all, she was a widow, was she not? Did she really require an escort? Oh, she cared very deeply for Giles. Beneath all his cool formality, he was kind. He took great pains to oversee her welfare. Giles was the sort of man who made a woman feel safe. So why, then, did Cecilia sometimes feel stifled?

  But it was too late. Giles was coming up her steps, looking resplendent in his flowing black evening cloak. His heavy black locks were still damp from his bath, his evening attire severe yet elegant. Cecilia sighed. At least Giles was willing to help her with her charity work—when he wasn’t busy chiding her for traveling into the East End. Tonight, they would have much to discuss en route to the Rowlands’.

  Her butler let him in, and swiftly Giles bent to kiss her cheek. “My dear, how lovely you look!” He gave her his usual smooth smile and carefully veiled appraisal. “Surely I shall have the loveliest step-mama at tonight’s affair.”

  And then they were off into the chilly February night, rolling toward Regent Stre
et and into Mayfair. The Rowland residence was but a short distance away—a regrettable circumstance, Cecilia soon decided. Within an hour of their arrival, she had greeted all of those few friends whom she shared with Anne Rowland. Then true boredom settled in.

  For better than an hour, she moved from one dull circle of people she did not like to an equally dull circle of people she did not know. And thus went the evening, for there were a great many such circles. The air was stale, the food tasted like sawdust, and Cecilia wanted desperately to go home. But she could not. Not until she had seen what might yet be had from the Rowlands. She had not risked Etta’s hapless ironing to go home empty-handed.

  But at present, Edmund Rowland appeared to be deep in conversation with a tall, balding gentleman who leaned heavily onto a carved walking stick inlaid with silver. They stood just beyond the wide, arched entrance which gave onto the main corridor, seemingly oblivious to those within the drawing room. Amongst the guests inside, Anne Rowland was nowhere to be seen. Discreetly, Cecilia slipped through the crowd into the corridor, brushing behind Edmund and making her way into the shadows in search of a moment’s peace.

  She paused on the threshold, looking just beyond Edmund’s shoulder toward the front door where two somnolent footmen awaited any departing guests. In the other direction, however, were the stairs to the ladies’ retiring room. Hastily, Cecilia picked up her skirts and started in that direction, but as she swept past a tall mahogany secretaire which stood against the wall, she very nearly tripped on a length of red silk which trailed from its shadows. Had someone dropped a scarf?

  Abruptly, she bent to retrieve it, but with a soft rustle, the fabric slithered from her grasp. “Why, good evening, Lady Walrafen,” drawled a refined feminine voice from beyond the secretaire.

  Cecilia jumped.

  With a bemused smile, Anne Rowland stepped out, her red skirts gathered into one hand as she drew up the scarf in the other. “Heavens, I did not intend to startle you,” she said softly, giving Cecilia a quizzical smile. “How good of you to join our little entertainment.”

  Cecilia quickly regained her aplomb. “It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Rowland,” she glibly lied. “I collect we have a great many acquaintances in common.”

  “Indeed,” returned Anne. “Then we must become better acquainted, my lady. Will you take a turn down the hall with me? I’ve just come out for some fresh air.”

  But at that moment, Edmund Rowland turned to stare over his shoulder at his wife. Mrs. Rowland held his gaze for a long, steady moment. “Your pardon,” she finally said, lowering her eyelashes with a sweeping gesture. “I must rescind my offer. I perceive that I am needed elsewhere.”

  Suddenly, Cecilia felt terribly awkward. Had Anne Rowland been eavesdropping on her husband? And if so, why? For once, his behavior looked innocuous.

  But Edmund had not looked precisely surprised to see Anne there. Nor had he looked at Cecilia, but given the furniture and the shadows, it was possible he did not know to whom his wife spoke. Still, it mattered little, for Edmund had turned away to stroll toward the front door with his guest, while Mrs. Rowland’s long red skirts were already swishing down the hall and around the corner.

  Hastily, Cecilia rushed up the steps to the ladies’ retiring room, only to find it too busy. Pausing just long enough to fix her face into the relentlessly poised smile she’d perfected during her come-out, she hastened back down the stairs and plunged into the crowded withdrawing room. It was time either to make her move or go home.

  At that very moment, however, she saw Edmund yet again. His elderly friend with the walking stick was gone, and her host was now wading through the room toward her. Good. It was as she had expected.

  A waiter brushed past her shoulder, and in a tiny act of desperation, Cecilia snatched another glass of champagne and discreetly pitched back a big swallow. It was her third glass, but she was very much afraid she would have need of it. Men like Edmund Rowland made her nervous. But at least she had a great deal of experience in fending them off.

  Since her entrée into society four years ago, Cecilia had often felt the heat of Edmund’s eyes sliding up and down her length. Her marriage had merely worsened his efforts. While he apparently thought himself a very dashing blade, she found Edmund to be little more than a vain popinjay who possessed—if rumor could be believed—some exceedingly nasty habits.

  Nonetheless, upon his father’s recent death, Edmund had come into what was accounted a moderate inheritance, along with a lovely home in Mayfair, and it seemed that his occasional brushes with the insolvency court were a thing of the past. Now, with her staid old papa-in-law laid to rest, Anne had set about entertaining in high style and wanted nothing so much as a guest list littered with old titles and wealthy nabobs. And Cecilia was among the former.

  Edmund swept into an elegant bow, almost brushing her glove with his lips. “Lady Walrafen,” he warmly purred. “Such an honor! Mrs. Rowland is almost beside herself.”

  Forcing a smile, Cecelia baited her hook. “Indeed?” she returned, sipping more delicately at her champagne. “One would hardly think your wife the excitable sort.”

  Edmund’s thin mouth twitched with some indefinable emotion, and then he smartly offered his arm. “Will you take a turn about the room with me, ma’am?” he oozed. “All of London is pleased that you’ve put off your black and can again give us the pleasure of your company.”

  Just then, a second waiter passed and Rowland snagged his own glass from the tray. “Now, tell me, my dear lady, however do you occupy your time now that you are...all alone?”

  Cecilia could not miss his silky undertone. She cast her line for all she was worth. “How kind you are, Mr. Rowland, to think of us lonely widows!” she answered, lowering her lashes and cutting a glance up at him. “But I can scarce imagine your having any interest in hearing about or—oh, dare I say it?—joining in any of my little pursuits...?”

  Slowing to a near halt, Edmund Rowland gave her a wide, wolfish grin. “I believe you very much mistake me, ma’am. I have always found everything about you inordinately interesting. And I am always looking for a pursuit worthy of joining.”

  Cecilia lifted her glass and stared languidly across the crystal rim. “Oh, my!” she said softly, deliberately holding Edmund’s gaze. “I am so very glad to hear it. So many men, you know, merely feign an interest in a poor widow’s most intimate concerns.”

  “Indeed?” Edmund lowered his gaze suggestively.

  “Oh, yes,” breathed Cecilia. She decided to jiggle the worm a bit. “And yet, they seem incapable of, er, following through any measure of satisfaction. It’s simply crushing when a man fails to uphold his—ah, his promise.”

  Cecilia watched his eyes light up. Rowland steered her toward a potted palm in one corner of the room. “Oh, it would take a worthless sort of fellow indeed to fail a woman of your enduring charms, Lady Walrafen,” he returned, swallowing the hook in one greedy gulp.

  “My charms?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, leaning a little nearer. “And for my part, I can pledge myself most assiduously—and most vigorously—to your long-neglected interests.”

  “Indeed?” she whispered, mentally setting the hook into his flesh.

  “Of course! In a more private moment, you need only tell me precisely what you wish of me, and I shall make all the appropriate efforts.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” she said breathlessly, tapping the rim of her glass against his in salute. “Though I’m not too concerned with the privacy of the thing, you’ve greatly relieved my mind, sir! It’s embarrassing to confess that I came here with the express hope of capturing your attention.”

  “Did you?” Edmund sounded momentarily flattered. Then he looked into her eyes and seemed to choke ever so slightly. “I—I would never have guessed.”

  Yes, the slick, shiny fellow felt something in his throat, didn’t he? It had been too easy, and he was just beginning to wonder...

  Cecilia tossed off the rest of her ch
ampagne, flashed him her brightest smile, then tapped him teasingly on the arm with the empty bowl. “Oh, Mr. Rowland!” she effused. “I knew I could count on you as soon as I learned that you were the Reverend Mr. Amherst’s cousin!”

  Some of the color drained from Edmund’s face at that. “My cousin, do you say?” He laughed a little nervously. “I suppose I must remember to thank dear Cole.”

  “Oh, we all should, do not you think?” Cecilia cast her eyes heavenward and tried to look suddenly pious, but it was a stretch. “And I must be doubly grateful, for I have no notion how I would have survived dear Walrafen’s death had I not devoted myself to Mr. Amherst’s mission.”

  “M-m-mission?”

  “Oh, yes.” Cecilia shot him another blinding smile and gave her rod one last jerk. “Now! Precisely what might you be able to do for me, Mr. Rowland? Don’t be shy! I need to know your preferences, you see.”

  “Preferences?” Edmund’s eyes began to dart about the room as if searching for an open door, or perhaps some opportune hole in the floor which might swallow him up. Sharply, he gave a strangled little cough.

  Lightly, Cecilia laid her hand upon his sleeve. “My dear Mr. Rowland! Are you perfectly all right? I say, I do hope there’s nothing irritating your throat. After all, it is February. The slightest inflammation might turn to quinsy!”

  Edmund coughed again. “No,” he rasped. “Throat’s fine.”

  “No swelling, then? Excellent! Now, as I was saying,” Cecilia continued, slowly reeling in her fish, “I daresay that a man of your importance must be exceedingly busy, so perhaps one big cash donation would be best? Of course, we always have need of volunteers—if, that is, you do not mind venturing in into the East End slums? In truth, the stench is not all that bad.”

  “The—the East End?”