‘Whatever is going on here?’ Annabell demanded from the drawing-room door.
Hugo spun around. He had not heard her come in and, from the look on his face, neither had Dominic.
‘Nothing,’ both men said at once.
Annabell came nearer, a suspicious look on her face. ‘Then why do both of you look like little boys caught with your fingers in the biscuit tin?’
Hugo looked at Dominic, who was looking at him. For once they both had a common goal, to keep the sordid truth from Annabell.
‘I was telling Fitzsimmon to be off,’ Dominic said. ‘Told him you didn’t wish to see a man who was engaged to another woman.’
Much as the words irritated him, Hugo had to admire Dominic’s quick thinking. She would believe that and it was the truth.
‘And I was telling him that I wanted to hear you dismiss me yourself.’
She looked from Dominic to him. ‘He is right. I don’t wish to see you.’
Her words hurt more than he would have expected. He had thought the musket ball in his thigh had been painful, but it had been nothing compared to this. This went deeper than physical agony. But he knew she was right. He needed to leave her alone. If he continued this, someone would notice and her name would eventually be dragged through the worst the ton had to offer.
He kept his gaze on her as he bowed. ‘I won’t bother you again, Lady Fenwick-Clyde.’
Her eyes widened slightly as though she had not expected him to agree so readily. His mouth twisted. She did not know about the bet. Were it not for that, he would not have accepted her dismissal so quickly. He would not have accepted it at all.
He took his leave before she could pry deeper. Better to never see her again than to drag her through the gutter. A nearly impossible decision to make, but a necessary one for her sake.
Hugo made his way to Brooks’s. It was early, but the betting book was always there. Perhaps there was a clue that would tell him who would do such a despicable thing. And there would undoubtedly be members there just to get away from home.
He signalled his tiger and jumped into the seat of his high-perch phaeton. With an accomplished flick of the wrist, he set his pair in motion. At St Timothy’s, he pulled to the curb and waited for the tiger to go to the horses’ heads before getting out.
‘I probably won’t be in very long, John. Don’t go far.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He took the reins and started walking the team up the road. He would continue to do so until Hugo returned.
Hugo entered the cool, dark club and handed his beaver and cane to a waiting footman. ‘Brandy.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The man left and Hugo went into the central room where the bulk of the gambling was done. The long crimson curtains were closed. The chandelier provided enough light for gambling and reading the papers.
He found the betting book and opened it to the last page. The bet was even uglier in writing than it had been coming from Dominic Chillings’s mouth. He set the book down and his fists clenched till the knuckles turned white. He looked around, wondering if any of the people here were responsible. A few men watched him surreptitiously. No one came over.
The servant found him sitting in one of the corners, his feet stretched out in a pose of seeming nonchalance. He was far from it.
‘Thank you,’ Hugo said, pouring a generous measure.
Someone was going to lose a great deal of money. Much as he didn’t want to marry Elizabeth Mainwaring, he was going to. As for Annabell, he hadn’t asked her to him marry even before this fiasco, and she would have told him no if he had.
He downed the brandy and poured more.
‘Mind if I join you?’
Hugo looked up, starting at the interloper’s immaculately polished Hessians, past a perfectly fitted jacket that even Beau Brummell could not have found fault with, to the intensely brilliant blue eyes of St. Cyrus. He did mind, but shrugged.
St. Cyrus took that as permission. ‘Mind if I share?’
Hugo took another drink and eyed the other man. ‘Yes.’
St. Cyrus’s chin jerked a little, but he waved to a servant. ‘Bring me a bottle of whatever this is.’
‘Brandy,’ Hugo said.
‘Brandy.’
Hugo waited St. Cyrus out. They were not friends, nor had they served together during Waterloo. In short, with the exception of Elizabeth Mainwaring, they had nothing in common.
The second bottle of brandy arrived and St. Cyrus poured a glass and drank the contents in one gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing behind the intricate folds of his cravat. He set the empty glass down and turned to face Hugo.
‘Your engagement to Lady Mainwaring was sudden.’
Hugo took another drink, wondering where this was going. ‘It depends on how you look at it.’
St. Cyrus took a sip of his brandy. ‘Perhaps. She had barely returned from Paris when it was announced.’
‘True.’ Hugo angled to look at the other man. ‘However, it is none of your business.’
St. Cyrus set his glass down sharply. ‘Are you sure?’
‘The lady assures me that it is so.’
‘And you believe her?’
Hugo looked away, checking to ensure no one was close by. Their discussion was private and, if overheard, damaging to Elizabeth’s good name, or what she had of one. Still, in spite of the situation, he did not want her hurt. He turned back.
‘Shouldn’t I?’
St. Cyrus’s perfect features reddened. Hugo eyed the man sardonically, wondering how indiscreet he would be.
St. Cyrus cleared his throat. ‘I think the lady might have acted in haste.’
Hugo’s heart lurched. Surely he had not heard what he thought he had heard. Elizabeth had led him to believe she had already spoken with St. Cyrus.
‘Really?’
It was hard to keep his mounting interest out of his voice, but if St. Cyrus was about to admit to something, he did not want to scare him off by seeming too eager. He took another drink.
St. Cyrus had stopped drinking. ‘It is very possible.’
Hugo chose his next words with care. ‘Then what do you intend to do about it?’
‘I have arranged to speak with her this evening. At the theatre.’
Hugo started. ‘I am taking her there.’
St. Cyrus had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I know, but…’
She had sent St. Cyrus a note. Hugo’s mouth twisted. ‘I see. That is not a very private place.’
‘No, it is not.’ St. Cyrus’s hands clenched on his thighs. ‘That is why I wanted to speak with you. It is a stroke of luck to find you here.’
‘It is the stroke of a very malicious pen,’ Hugo muttered.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Hugo eyed him with dislike. ‘The betting book. Perhaps you even wrote it.’
St. Cyrus drew himself up straight. ‘I am not in the habit of writing in the blasted thing.’
Hugo snorted. ‘From what you have hinted at these past minutes, you would certainly stand to gain if the bet came true.’
St. Cyrus’s eyes turned frosty. ‘I will see what you are talking about.’
Hugo shrugged. ‘As you wish.’
He watched the other man make his way to the infamous book, and wondered what was going on. From the implications of the conversation, St. Cyrus was not happy that Elizabeth was engaged to someone besides himself. Interesting.
St. Cyrus read the last page, and Hugo saw his elegant body stiffen. The other man swept his cold gaze around the room. No one looked at him. So, Hugo decided, St. Cyrus was not the target of the bet, nor was he the perpetrator—unless he was a superb actor.
St. Cyrus stalked back to the seat beside Hugo. ‘When I find out who wrote that, I will see to it that he does not write anything else.’
‘My sentiments exactly.’ Hugo was mildly surprised to see that he and St. Cyrus could agree on something besides bedding Elizabeth Mainwaring.
‘But for different
reasons, I would wager.’
Hugo watched the other man through narrowed eyes. ‘For the nonce, my reasons are my own.’
‘Understood.’ St. Cyrus stood. ‘I will be calling at your box tonight.’
Hugo nodded. He had a season box at Covent Garden. Juliet used it more than he, but he got it every year.
He watched St. Cyrus leave, wondering what would come of this. And what would he do if St. Cyrus did ask Elizabeth to marry him? Would he ask Bell to wed him? He didn’t know.
That evening, Hugo sat in his box and looked casually around the theatre. As usual, all the ton had come to Covent Garden Theatre. The boxes were full and the pit was crowded. The women were in evening gowns and masses of jewellery. The men had their quizzing glasses raised. At least, a quizzing glass was one affectation he did not aspire to.
He heard Elizabeth flick open her fan. ‘La, Hugo, it is hot in here. Would you get me something to drink?’
He turned to her. As usual, she was stunning. She wore a black evening dress with white trim of some sort. The neck scooped low to show her milky breasts. And there was a brightness in her eyes and a flush on her fair complexion. His mouth twisted sardonically. She was excited about St. Cyrus’s visit. Far be it from him to interfere.
‘Of course, Elizabeth.’ Hugo rose to leave.
She nodded graciously. ‘Take your time.’
Even as she spoke to him, her eyes scanned the nearby boxes with an eagerness that was almost painful to watch. He was not accustomed to seeing her expose her emotions openly. For the first time since this fiasco began, he felt sorry for Elizabeth. She might have created this intolerable situation, but she was no more happy than he.
Hugo bowed and left, swinging his ebony cane jauntily. With luck and another man’s jealousy, tonight might see him a free man.
With that thought, Hugo searched to see if Annabell was here. There was no reason to believe she would be since she was not at all interested in society and where it congregated. Still, he would like to see her, and if she was here he would go so far as to visit her. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He found her. She was across the theatre in a box with a group that included Dominic Chillings, Miss Emily Duckworth, who looked as though she had just eaten a lemon, and her sister, Miss Lucy. He would wager the tension in that box could be cut with a knife.
Without pausing to consider his actions, Hugo made his way to the box and knocked. Dominic Chillings came to the door and stepped out.
‘You are not wanted, Fitzsimmon.’
‘By you or your sister?’ Hugo asked coolly.
‘Both.’
Hugo looked the younger man in the eye. There was a belligerent set to Dominic Chillings’s jaw that spoke of determination. If he forced the issue, Annabell’s brother would be glad to help him cause a scene. That was the last thing any of them needed. Nor was it fair to Annabell. She had already told him to leave her in peace. It was not her fault he was unable to do so.
Hugo took a deep breath and made himself do the right thing. ‘I will leave for now.’ He didn’t bow, but pivoted on his heel and sauntered away, working to keep the simmering irritation he felt from showing. It was bad enough that anyone watching had seen him turned away. Now the gossip-mongers would have a feast, but at least it was no worse. There would be no challenge to titillate everyone.
He paused and looked at his own box, which was in the first circle. St. Cyrus was there. He and Elizabeth had their heads together. She even had her hand on his forearm. They were so obviously a couple that Hugo decided to leave. St. Cyrus would see Elizabeth home—his or hers. It didn’t matter. All he wanted was a note telling him the engagement was off because she was to marry St. Cyrus.
Nothing else mattered.
Chapter Nineteen
Hugo found it impossible to sleep after the theatre. He paced his room and dozed, with more pacing than dozing. Morning couldn’t come soon enough. Having never really slept, when morning finally arrived Hugo found himself even more impatient, if that were possible.
Now he had to wait until afternoon when Elizabeth would be up. He knew from the past that she was not an early riser. And then he would have to be patient and see if she would send for him.
And what if she didn’t?
He wouldn’t think about that. She would or she wouldn’t. If she did, then he would be free to go to Annabell. If she didn’t, he would marry a woman he didn’t love because of a child he might or might not have fathered. Simple, no matter how the second action would hurt.
Half past noon, Butterfield knocked on the library door. ‘Excuse me, sir, but there is a message for you.’
‘Thank you.’
Hugo jumped up from the leather wing chair he had been lounging in, trying to read and being unsuccessful. As at Rosemont, the library here was also his favourite room. He liked books and maps. Always had.
He picked up the sheet of paper, which was sealed with red wax. The scent of tuberose engulfed him. Relief eased the tension in his shoulders.
Opening the note, he read: Dearest Hugo, please call on me immediately. I have something of great importance to tell you. EM.
He tore the sheet into pieces and threw them on the grate. When the fire was lit this evening, the paper would be ashes. He trusted his servants, but this was a private matter.
‘Butterfield, have my carriage brought ’round.’
‘Yes, sir.’ There was only a hint of curiosity in the old retainer’s eyes.
‘Don’t worry, old man, you will know soon enough.’
Hugo could no longer go to Butterfield with his trials and tribulations, but he still cared for the man. And he knew Butterfield had been troubled by his engagement, although the butler had never said a word.
‘Yes, sir.’
Hugo smiled. ‘Where is Jamison? I need a coat at the very least.’
‘I believe he is upstairs, but he could also be out.’
‘True,’ Hugo said, more amused than irritated at the possibility. ‘He does like London and all the possibilities it provides.’
He went up the stairs two at a time. He should have put a coat on first thing upon dressing, but it was hotter than normal today and he liked his comfort before he cared for fashion.
He entered his chamber. ‘Jamison.’
When the valet didn’t appear, Hugo went to the dressing room and found a bottle-green coat. He shrugged into it, thankful he did not believe in tailoring to the point that he needed help to dress. He didn’t always cut a dash, but then his lack of polish had never hurt him either.
He went down the stairs as quickly as he had gone up them. His phaeton waited. He jumped up, took the reins and signalled the tiger to get into position.
He found himself more anxious by the minute. What if he was mistaken and Elizabeth had not summoned him to release him from their engagement? What would he do then? He would deal with that if and when it happened. There was no point in borrowing trouble.
He consciously relaxed his shoulders and made himself pay attention to his driving. The streets were busy as usual at this time of year, and he did not want to cause an accident or be in one of another person’s making.
He reached Elizabeth’s town house and gave the reins to his tiger. ‘Walk them. I might be a while.’
Not waiting for a reply, Hugo ran up the front steps and rapped. Elizabeth’s butler was prompt.
‘Good afternoon, Sir Hugo,’ the butler said. ‘Her lady-ship is expecting you.’
‘Hello, Edwards.’
He followed the butler in and was shown to the drawing room. It was done in the Egyptian motif of several seasons before. He had always thought the drama of it was the perfect foil for Elizabeth, who could be quite dramatic if she felt it suited her.
‘Sir Hugo Fitzsimmon,’ the butler announced.
Hugo walked in and immediately saw Elizabeth by the window. She sat stiffly in one of the very uncomfortable settees. She was obviously as unsettled as he was. But there was
a glow about her face that told him she was either excited or happy—probably both.
‘Elizabeth,’ he said, coming to a halt in front of her. ‘Is something the matter?’
He sounded inane, but he was afraid to say anything that might worsen the situation. He was suddenly very aware that he wanted her to break their engagement more than he had ever wanted anything in his life—with the exception of Annabell. Nothing had prepared him for what Annabell had come to mean to him.
Even now, the realisation stunned him and he missed Elizabeth’s first words.
‘—so, you see, I think it for the best.’ There was such hope in her eyes that Hugo’s hopes soared.
‘Pardon me, Elizabeth, but I was not paying proper attention. Would you please repeat what you just said?’
He had never been this gauche, and he would have been ashamed if he were not so nervous. But he wanted this so badly.
She gave him a cold look. ‘Do you need to sit, Hugo?’
‘No.’
She licked her full, red lips. ‘Well, I just told you St. Cyrus has asked me to marry him.’
Hugo sat. It was either that or shout for joy. He was a free man. But he did his best to keep his spirits under control. It would not be right to parade his relief in front of her.
‘And what did you say?’ he asked, careful to keep his voice pleasantly curious only.
She tilted her head to one side. ‘Hugo, aren’t you happy? I thought you surely would be.’
‘That depends on what you told him, Elizabeth. If you remember, you told me I am the father of your child.’
He couldn’t keep a slight tinge of irony from his words. Happy as he was to know his freedom was in sight, he still harboured a little bitterness about the situation her demands had created. Annabell had been hurt. She might refuse to take him back, and he couldn’t blame her.
‘You are not making this easy, Hugo.’
An Unconventional Widow Page 26
