A Woman of Virtue

by Liz Carlyle

Cecilia dropped her voice to a confessional tone. “Yes, some people, you know, do not care for it at all! It is one thing to wish to help the lower orders, and another thing altogether to actually associate with them, is it not?”

  Edmund lost the rest of his color. “Associate with?”

  “Indeed!” answered Cecilia, nodding more fervently. She studied Edmund’s face. On second thought, he wasn’t exactly a fish. More of an eel, really. “Why, just last week, I attended a soiree very like this one—at the home of a very dear friend of the Duke of York. Oh, but I should not name names, should I? Anyway, the gentleman in question was very like yourself.”

  “Like me—?”

  “That is to say, well placed in good society and very desirous of helping our cause. But he just gave me a bank draft for five thousand pounds. I daresay you might find it expedient simply to do the same? And to be sure, you needn’t feel one bit ashamed of it.”

  Cecilia’s fish fell metaphorically at her feet, flopping about and gasping for breath.

  Suddenly, someone touched her lightly on the arm. It was Giles, bringing a death cudgel in the form of a rotund, purple-turbaned matron who wheezed and creaked on his arm. How fortuitous!

  “Oh, look,” Cecilia squealed. “Here is Giles! And dear Lady William! Giles, my dear, you shall never guess! Mr. Rowland wishes to make a donation to the mission! Indeed, he wishes to donate—?” Cecilia arched one eyebrow and looked at Edmund delicately.

  Edmund looked witheringly at the matron, Lady William Heath, a notorious gossip and inveterate blow-hard. Again, he cleared his throat with an agonizing harumph. “F-f-five thousand pounds, I believe it was.”

  Giles sucked in his breath. “Good God!”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed Lady William Heath appreciatively.

  “Oh!” chirped Cecilia, reverently clutching her empty glass to her bosom. “How very good you are, sir! Your generosity warms my heart! That is by far our largest contribution to date.”

  Her fish gave another little twitch and flop. “B-b-but the Duke of York,” Edmund stuttered. “Did you not say... did not his friend... give five thousand pounds?”

  Cecilia let her eyes roll back down from heaven to catch his gaze. “Oh, dear!” she innocently exclaimed. “How silly I am! Did I misspeak? It was five hundred pounds. Of course, if I have confused you—that is to say, if you wish to reconsider...”

  Lady William lifted her lorgnette to peer at Edmund, leaning forward until her stays creaked and her purple-feathered turban protruded into the midst of the conversation. The timing could not have been better.

  Edmund’s eyes widened in alarm. “Do you mean renege?” he asked haughtily. “Certainly not!”

  With a pained expression, Giles watched Edmund Rowland walk away. At that moment, Lady William turned to snatch another dollop of the goose liver pàté.

  “Really, Cecilia!” Giles whispered disapprovingly. “I tell you, I won’t be a party to this sort of thing again. Unlike you, I cannot call it Christian duty. I daresay I ought simply to write you a bloody bank draft myself and be done with it!”

  Cecilia flashed him her most radiant smile. “Oh, Giles! That wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. And by the way, your timing was sheer perfection. And Lady William! A true touch of genius.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lady William turned back to face them as she swallowed her pàté. “Did I hear my name?”

  Again, Cecilia beamed. “Oh, indeed, ma’am. I was just telling Giles that I have not had the pleasure of seeing you in ever so long. You must come up to Park Crescent for tea soon. And in truth, I have been wondering—”

  Lady William threw up a staying hand as she swallowed one last lump of goose liver. “No, no, my dear! You’ll not suck me in with those pretty blue eyes!” She paused introspectively. “Though I must say, I was rather proud of the way you handled Edmund Rowland. That man is not known for his charitable nature, to say the least!”

  But Cecilia did not cut bait quite so easily. “Oh, Lady William! How can you not support the Reverend Mr. Amherst’s efforts when he is working so diligently to save the souls of innocent women who have been compromised and mistreated by men? Wealthy, well-placed men, for the most part.”

  Sardonically, Lady William chuckled, the purple plumes of her turban bouncing merrily. “Oh, my dear—indeed, my very naïve Lady Walrafen! Decent women do not end up in compromising situations unless they are morally deficient! Everyone knows that!”

  There but by the grace of God, thought Cecilia as an unsettling memory stirred. “Everyone knows?” she challenged, clutching her empty wine glass until she feared the stem might snap. “And just who among us might constitute this omniscient everyone, Lady William? For in my experience, I have found that decent women are often put upon very much against their will and that—”

  “Cecilia, my dear!” Giles interrupted with a firm tug on her arm. “You must forgive my forgetfulness. I sent for my carriage a quarter-hour past. You look terribly wan. It is time I saw you home.”

  Cecilia looked about the room just as the clock struck eleven. Giles was right. Lady William was hopelessly narrow-minded, and it was time to go home. A few of Edmund’s guests had already left, and at an hour which was rather early, even for London’s off-season.

  Forcing a bright smile, Cecilia looked up at her stepson and lightly laid her hand upon his arm. “Why, how attentive you are, Giles! I am perfectly drained. Do let us go.”

  Chapter Two

  In Which Delacourt Falls Victim to a Captain Sharp

  The Reverend Mr. Amherst had come home bone-weary and more than a little disheartened from a day spent trudging about in the bitter environs of Lower Shadwell. And then, much to his disappointment, he had been able to steal but a moment alone with his beloved wife and daughters before being required to go back downstairs to join his stepsons in playing the congenial host to his troublesome brother-in-law.

  But one moment alone with Jonet was enough to renew his worst fears. She was fretting herself sick over Delacourt again—and at a time when it was most unwise to do so. Indeed, Cole had resisted the impulse to scold her soundly, to tell her that the child she carried had to be foremost in both their minds. Nonetheless, he, too, was deeply concerned about his brother-in-law.

  In Cole’s estimation, Delacourt had been pissing away his life for far too long. He was among the most haughty, extravagant, and indolent gentlemen in all of London. But that was not what bothered Cole. No, what bothered Cole was just how miserable Delacourt was about it. Misery was a complicated thing for a vicar to deal with.

  If a man reveled in a life of sloth and sin, it was a simple enough matter for a clergyman to appeal to his sense of remorse. Only the most hardened and hell-bound of scoundrels felt no guilt over a life of iniquity. But when a man felt nothing—or near to it—that limited what anyone might do to help him. And Delacourt’s deadened emotions were of long duration.

  There had been a time, not so many years ago, when Cole had begun to believe that the very thing Delacourt needed had finally arrived, but it had come on the wings of an appalling misunderstanding.

  But soon, he had begun to believe that Cecilia Markham-Sands was just what was required to jolt the arrogant young viscount out of his discontent and lethargy. For weeks after Lord Delacourt’s sham betrothal to Lady Cecilia had been announced, Cole had watched his brother-in-law pace nervously up and down the corridors of Elmwood like an expectant father. Surprisingly, Delacourt had tried to push the marriage forward. And then, when Lady Cecilia had refused to see him, Delacourt had gone so far as to call upon both her uncle and her brother in Buckinghamshire, in the hope that they might persuade her to make the betrothal more than just a charade.

  But Lady Cecilia had seemed insulted by his interest.

  When asked, Delacourt had hotly insisted that he was simply attempting to do the honorable thing and that Lady Cecilia was too young to know what was best. But it had hardly required a soothsayer to see that the haughty young visc
ount’s perseverance had been far more rooted in his own obsession than in any wish to respect the conventions of society.

  No, Lord Delacourt was notorious for flaunting convention, and for enjoying the doing of it. But Cecilia Markham-Sands had been his first—and his last—obsession. And there was nothing about that which had ever given Delacourt a moment’s pleasure.

  Well, perhaps one or two. Before he’d known just whom he’d got hold of.

  After crying off her mock engagement, it had been almost two years before Lady Cecilia had deigned to leave her home and make her belated London debut—and Jonet had always theorized that that circumstance had had more to do with Harry Markham-Sands’s sudden marriage than any desire to wed.

  But by then, the vivacious girl had blossomed into an extraordinarily beautiful woman, the very embodiment of restrained feminine elegance. Despite her lack of fortune, many of the ton’s young rogues and all of its more staid suitors had fallen at Cecilia’s feet. The brilliant young MP, Giles Lorimer, had tumbled first. Oddly, his widowed father had followed shortly thereafter, with a string of others in between.

  Yes, Lady Cecilia’s suitors had given Delacourt some stiff competition, and he’d been the only confirmed ne’er-do-well amongst them. But again, he’d done his best, apparently believing that her reappearance in society meant that perhaps Lady Cecilia, all grown up, might be willing to receive his attentions.

  She had not been willing.

  Indeed, she had spurned him to the point of embarrassment. And at the end of the season, she had quietly married Giles Lorimer’s father, the widowed Lord Walrafen, a man more than twice her age, who possessed less than half Delacourt’s wealth.

  So much for painting the chit a fortune hunter.

  Delacourt had hidden his disappointment with better success the second time around. If he had been a hardened rakehell before, he was twice as bad after.

  So far as Cole or Jonet knew, Delacourt had not spoken one word to Lady Walrafen during the whole of her marriage. Indeed, they had once seen him walk a circle around a receiving line—a dreadful breach of etiquette—merely to avoid acknowledging her. Others had seen it, too, and while they might have quietly laughed about it, no one was apparently bold enough or foolish enough to tease the volatile viscount openly.

  And then, when Lord Walrafen had died less than three years into the marriage, Delacourt had refused to send so much as a letter of condolence. And he seemed incapable of admitting just what the problem was. Or perhaps he knew it and simply did not know how to go forward with his life.

  And just what was the problem?

  Was Delacourt in love with Cecilia Markham Sands? Even Cole did not have the answer to that one. Probably not. Delacourt’s obsession seemed even deeper than that, and rooted in a kind of remorse so caustic and so cancerous that even Cole could barely understand it.

  Yes, Delacourt had very nearly forced himself upon Cecilia—an act so heinous and so horribly close to Delacourt’s own soul that Cole believed it still tormented him. And she had coolly refused to allow him to assuage so much as a twinge of his guilt. Though her actions had been more self-preserving than deliberately punitive, Cole wondered if there was a more merciless punishment a person could mete out to another human being.

  Well! Perhaps there was a lesson there? Cole shook his head and dressed for dinner.

  But despite Cole’s fatigue and Jonet’s delightful dinner conversation, he continued to find himself obsessed with the problem of his brother-in-law all through the meal. Indeed, he kept on turning it over in his mind, even as port was being served to David, himself, and his elder stepson, Stuart, Lord Mercer. Moreover, by the time he had found himself reseated with his family in the withdrawing room, he was still thinking about it.

  In the book room next door, the longcase clock struck eleven. At once, Jonet stood, pressing one hand to the small of her back and stifling a yawn with the other. “Gentlemen, I must say good night, or at least two of you will be required to carry me up to bed.”

  Lovingly, Cole gazed at his wife. “Any one of us could carry you, my dear, for you are the merest sprite,” he said gently, but he turned to his younger stepson, Lord Robert Rowland. “Robin, you will give your mother your arm and see her safely up the stairs, if you please.”

  Lord Robert leapt up to do as he was bid.

  David’s eyes followed Jonet as she left the room. As soon as the two had vanished down the hall, he turned his narrow gaze upon his brother-in-law. “Really, Amherst!” he complained. “This is to be her fourth confinement in eight years! It certainly appears you men of the cloth are a little more—how shall I put it?—more zealous than one might suppose.”

  Cole merely settled himself back into his chair. “Have you a point, David?” he asked softly. “For in truth, I cannot imagine my marriage is any of your concern, so long as I take good care of your sister.”

  David cut a swift glance in Stuart’s direction. “Do you call it care to keep a woman with child six months out of every twelve?” he demanded in a cold undertone.

  Clearly uncomfortable, Stuart rose and went to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of sherry.

  Cole studied his brother-in-law. “Your concern for Jonet, while admirable, leads you to exaggerate.”

  “Does it?” replied his brother-in-law.

  Cole ignored the question, rising abruptly from his chair. “For the nonce, why do we not occupy ourselves in a sport which is a little less apt to bring us all to fisticuffs? What do you fellows say to a few hands of whist?”

  Just then, the ever ebullient Robin reentered the room. “By gad, a card game!” he interjected enthusiastically. “That would be famous.”

  “What sort of stakes?” asked David, looking perfectly bored as he neatened the cuffs of his shirt.

  Cole bent down to the table and calmly refilled his brandy. For a long moment, he said nothing. “How does this strike you, David?” he finally replied, settling the decanter back onto its tray. “We shall play five games at twenty guineas a point—”

  “Ouch!” exclaimed Robin. “That’s a bit rich, Papa.”

  “—the winnings to be donated to the Daughters of Nazareth Society,” continued Cole. “And Robin, I’m painfully aware that you’ve been supplementing your quarterly allowance down at the Bucket of Blood—or whatever you choose to call that Covent Garden hell-hole—in ways which we will discuss at a more private moment. Nonetheless, I’m persuaded that your losing tonight would scarce put a dent in your ill-gotten gains.”

  Robin’s chin promptly dropped into his cravat.

  David struck a thoughtful pose. “That is all very well,” he finally answered. “But dashed dull, you must admit.”

  “Assuredly, we are not up to snuff with the sort of gamesters you normally sport with,” agreed Cole with equanimity. “But of course, a good host would not wish his more worldly guests to suffer any sort of ennui. Perhaps we ought to propose something a little more challenging?”

  “Such as?” asked David suspiciously.

  “Something just between the two of us. If you’ll consent to take the seat opposite me, I will make you a private wager.”

  “Of what sort?” David coolly returned, reluctant to admit how loath he was to return home alone. He wanted desperately to stay here with his nephews. And with Cole.

  “A favor,” answered Cole thoughtfully. “A personal favor. If you can take three of five games, I shall grant you one of your choosing. Perhaps I can do something to ease your concerns about your sister’s welfare? But of course, you may choose anything you like, as long as it is relatively legal and completely moral.”

  David smiled grimly. “Ah!” he whispered, cutting a sharp glance toward Robin. “A favor of my choosing! But would you be so obliging, I wonder, as to promise that my sister shall have a long—perhaps even an indefinite—period of rest after this next child? I collect you take my meaning here.”

  “That, sir, is a very hard bargain!” Cole looked grave. “Mo
reover, your sister has a mind of her own, lest you’ve forgotten. But, yes—I can pledge that after this confinement, I shall do all within my power to do as you ask.”

  “Excellent!” proclaimed David. “Come, Stuart! Let us pull that marquetry table a little nearer to the fire. Robin, you will find us two fresh packs of cards, if you please.”

  But the vicar still stood by his chair, his snifter held loosely in one hand. “David,” he said softly, “do you not wish to know what I shall ask of you?”

  By now, David and Stuart had already taken hold of the table. “It scarce matters,” David grunted as they hefted the furniture. “I’ve not lost a game of whist in fifteen years.”

  “Really?” returned Cole, sounding singularly unimpressed. “Nonetheless, I should feel that I had unfairly advantaged myself had I not fully explained what it is I wish you to do.”

  “Then by all means,” said David arrogantly as they moved the table across the room.

  “I’ve promised to take your sister back to Elmwood for her confinement. We’re to leave in ten days’ time and stay three months. I want you to take over my duties at the mission until I return.”

  David dropped the table on his nephew’s toe.

  “Bloody hell!” screeched Stuart, clutching one foot while hopping about on the other.

  Both men ignored him. Robin pulled a chair toward the table and shoved his elder brother into it.

  Finally, David spoke. “Very well,” he answered calmly. “What do you do there, anyway? Keep a few ledgers? Badger the Home Office? Write a few bank drafts, perhaps?”

  “I fancy you’ll find it rather more than that.”

  David tossed his hand dismissively. “Well, it doesn’t signify, for I shan’t lose. I never lose.” He turned his attention to his nephews. “Break the first pack, Robin. Cole and I shall draw for partners between you.”

  Chairs were pulled to the table. Cards were drawn pairing David with Stuart and passing the first deal to Robin. Play commenced at a brisk pace. Cole and Robin were defeated in the first game when David effortlessly racked the requisite points and went out in three hands.