by Mary Balogh
“Viscount Dirkson,” she said.
There was a brief silence.
“Viscount Dirkson?” her mother said.
“Gil does not make it generally known,” Abigail said. “He did not even know who his father was until after his mother died when he was a sergeant in India. The viscount purchased his ensign’s commission and then his promotion to lieutenant. Gil stopped him purchasing any further promotions and even regretted the ones he had been surprised into accepting. He wanted nothing to do with his father. He still does not. As far as he is concerned he had only one parent.”
“Viscount Dirkson,” her mother said again. “He was a member of the set with whom Humphrey consorted.”
“And that is not a strong recommendation,” Grandmama said. “Most of my son’s friends were unsavory characters. Just like him. So Dirkson abandoned his by-blow, did he?”
“Even so,” Uncle Thomas said, “something might be made of the fact that Bennington is well born, at least on his father’s side.”
“I am acquainted with his son,” Bertrand said. “I mean reasonably well acquainted. We were at Oxford together. He was a year ahead of me.”
Aunt Matilda was still clutching the vinaigrette, but she was not pressing it upon her mother. Rather, she was pressing it to her bosom. “There is a likeness,” she said. “I ought to have seen it. Without the scar surely I would have. He was a strikingly handsome man.”
“And a rake, Matilda,” Aunt Mildred said. “He was not the sort of friend one would have wished Humphrey to have. He was not the sort of friend one would have wished upon anyone. But then, our brother was not either.”
“We definitely need a plan,” Aunt Louise said. “We need to put our heads together. That young man may not want our acquaintance or our help, but he is married to Abigail and he must be given no choice.”
Uncle Thomas groaned and Colin grinned.
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said, smiling and clapping her hands together as she got to her feet, “the campaign can be postponed until another time. We invited everyone here to celebrate Abigail’s marriage even though her husband cannot be with us. Let us celebrate from this moment on. Tea will be awaiting us in the dining room. Colin, will you escort Abigail there while the rest of us follow?”
“It will be my pleasure,” he said, smiling kindly upon Abigail as he approached and offered her his arm again. “Camille mentioned in a letter to Elizabeth that Joel has bought young Robbie a new dog and he is a far happier child for it. And the idea came from your husband. You must tell me more.”
“Oh yes,” Abigail said as they led the way to the dining room. “Apparently Robbie chose a collie and they are inseparable. But do let me tell you about Beauty—Gil’s dog—and my first encounter with her.”
There was a banquet spread upon the table.
* * *
• • •
Fortunately the Dowager Countess of Riverdale was already lying down for her nap when young Bertrand arrived at the house the following afternoon. Lady Matilda Westcott had been ready with an explanation should one be needed, but she was very glad it was not. She had been unable to invent anything that would sound convincing.
Matilda was ready to leave the house—she had chosen her very best outfit, a dark green dress and pelisse and bonnet she usually reserved for the occasional garden party she attended with her mother—and hurried downstairs to the hall before the butler could bring her a message.
“Good afternoon, Bertrand,” she said briskly, pulling on her gloves before extending her right hand for a firm handshake. “You are very prompt. I like that in a young man.”
He was twenty-one years old and tall and lean and dark and handsome and must already have a whole army of young ladies in a flutter. And he would only improve with age, just as his father had done. The Marquess of Dorchester must be approaching his middle forties by now, but he and Viola still made an extraordinarily handsome couple.
Bertrand was bowing and wishing her a good afternoon and flushing and looking as mystified as he had yesterday when she had taken him briefly aside after tea at Elizabeth’s and asked if he would be so kind as to offer her his escort this afternoon. He must have thought she had taken leave of her senses, fallen off the cliff into senility. But the poor boy was a gentleman through and through and had assured her that it would be his pleasure. He was also a smooth liar. He had looked even more mystified and perhaps slightly alarmed when she had asked him not to tell anyone. He had assured her he would not. But why would he? A young gentleman surely did not boast of escorting his aging stepaunt about London.
But if that was so, he was not at least going to hide her inside a closed carriage with all the curtains drawn. From the step outside the house Matilda looked down upon a smart curricle and pair.
“Oh my!” she said.
“I hope you do not mind, ma’am,” he said. “I would have had to hire a chaise or ask my father—”
“Mind?” Matilda said. “My dear young man, I have not ridden in a curricle since I do not know when. But I am not in my dotage yet. Not even a twinge of the rheumatics.”
After he had assisted her into the curricle and taken his place beside her and gathered the ribbons into his hands, he looked at her inquiringly. “And where may I have the pleasure of taking you, ma’am?” he asked.
“I thought,” she said, “you might enjoy calling upon your Oxford friend Mr. Sawyer. I do not know his first name.”
He looked blankly at her. “Sawyer?” he said. “Adrian Sawyer?”
“If that is his name, yes,” Matilda said. “Son of Viscount Dirkson. Legitimate son, that is.”
The blank look continued for a moment, to be replaced by a hint of a smile. “Lady Matilda,” he asked, “what are you up to?”
“Oh dear,” she said. “Do you not know him well?”
“Actually,” he said, “I knew him quite well before he came down, a year ahead of me. I have not seen him since, though someone did mention seeing him in town a few weeks ago.”
“Then perhaps,” she said, “it is time you became reacquainted. I knew his father, Bertrand. A long time ago, when he was a friend of Humphrey’s. My brother,” she added by way of explanation. “I cannot call upon him alone. It is not done, you know. Even a maid would not lend me sufficient respectability.”
One of his horses snorted, apparently impatient to be moving.
“So I am to call upon an old university friend I have not seen in a year, bringing my stepsister’s aunt along with me for company, am I?” he asked.
“I suppose,” she said, “I will be a great embarrassment to you.”
He regarded her in silence for a moment while the other horse snorted and the first tossed its head.
“I would guess,” he said, “that this has to do with Lieutenant Colonel Bennington.”
“Well,” she said. “It does. And I suppose you are wondering why I have not sent Thomas to make the call. Or Alexander or Avery. Or even your papa.”
“What if neither Adrian nor Viscount Dirkson is at home?” he asked.
It was, of course, a distinct possibility. Indeed, it would be nothing short of a miracle if neither one was out. This was madness, but—
“I do not even know where he lives,” Bertrand said.
“I do,” Matilda told him.
Twenty
The miracle happened. By the time it did, however, and Viscount Dirkson’s butler had admitted Lady Matilda Westcott and Viscount Watley to a handsome visitors’ parlor leading off the hall while he went to see if his lordship and his son were at home—a euphemism for discovering whether they wished to see their visitors—Matilda was heartily wishing it had not happened. And from the look on his face, she guessed that Bertrand was wishing it too.
Perhaps this had not been a good idea after all.
In all of thirty-six years, Matilda
had caught only the occasional glimpse of Viscount Dirkson. She had not come face-to-face with him in all that time. By design, of course. On both their parts, no doubt. She had never, ever been such a bold hussy as to come to his house. It really was quite inexcusable even if she had brought Bertrand with her and made it seem that he was the caller in chief while she was just the inadvertent hanger-on.
Whoever was just a hanger-on with her twenty-one-year-old stepnephew? Was there even such a relationship?
If she could have crept out through a side door or dropped out of a window, she would cheerfully have done it. But the damage had already been done. The butler had borne her name upstairs and it was too much to hope that if she disappeared, Viscount Dirkson would believe his butler must have been having hallucinations.
Bertrand was looking rather as though he had tied his neckcloth too tightly. She could not abandon him now even if there were a window conveniently open.
Oh dear.
And then the door opened and they came in together—one older gentleman, one younger. They looked nothing alike, Matilda thought while there was still a coherent thought in her head. The older one was tall, a fine figure of a man, with a full head of hair, silvered at the temples, pepper and salt elsewhere. Mostly pepper, she decided. He did not look his age, which she knew was in the mid-fifties. Men were so fortunate. They aged far more slowly and gracefully than women did. The two of them had discovered once upon a time that he was precisely one month to the day older than she. The younger man was shorter, fair haired and fresh faced, and slightly on the stocky side. Like his late mother. He was looking pleased. His father was looking neither pleased nor displeased. He was looking directly at Matilda.
Oh dear.
“Bertrand!” the younger man exclaimed, striding forward, his right hand outstretched. “It is you. I wondered. You used not to use the Viscount Watley part of your name. How do you do? This is a pleasure.”
“How do you do?” Bertrand said. “It is just a courtesy title, you know. May I have the honor of presenting Lady Matilda Westcott? She is my stepmother’s sister-in-law.”
“How do you do, ma’am?” Mr. Adrian Sawyer said, making an elegant bow. “Are you acquainted with my father? Are you, Bertrand?”
And the moment had arrived. Actually, it had done that several moments ago. Matilda dipped into a curtsy and then wished she had merely inclined her head with grave dignity.
“Matilda,” Viscount Dirkson said, making her a bow but not proceeding farther into the room. He was looking at her, narrow eyed, as well he might. What on earth had put it into her head to come here? For now he was ignoring Bertrand.
“Charles,” she said, and then could have bitten out her tongue. Oh dear, she was too old for this. Far too old. She had been poised and firm minded for years and years. This was no time to revert to girlhood dithers and blushes.
He had switched his attention to Bertrand and his son. “I believe we met once in Oxford, Watley,” he said. “I am sure my son is quite delighted by your call. The two of you must have much to say to each other and much reminiscing to do. You will doubtless feel more comfortable if Lady Matilda and I are not present to hear you, and no doubt we will feel more comfortable too not to have to listen. Ma’am, may I show you the garden? There is a pretty display of flowers at present.”
Oh dear.
“Thank you,” she said, and was surprised and relieved to discover that her legs took her across the room toward him without tottering or folding under her.
He said nothing as he walked beside her through the hall and along a corridor that circled behind the staircase, his boot heels clicking on the tiled floor. He led her out through a back door into a garden filled with the color and perfume of myriad flowers. There was a well-scythed lawn out there too and a wrought iron seat beneath a chestnut tree.
“Well, Matilda,” he said as he closed the door behind him.
“Charles,” she said, turning to look at him and clasping her hands firmly at her waist. His face was leaner than it had been when he was a young man. His cheekbones and features were more pronounced. But he still looked handsome and remarkably like his son—his other son—but without the scar. “I have come about your son.”
Gone already, then, was the pretense that she had come because Bertrand, who had happened to be escorting her—where?—had suddenly conceived a burning hankering to call upon an old university chum of his he had not seen in more than a year.
He gazed at her, his hands clasped behind his back. He had made no attempt to show her the garden or to lead her toward the seat. “I assume,” he said, “you are not talking about the son who is currently in conversation with your . . . stepnephew?”
“I am talking about Lieutenant Colonel Bennington,” she told him. “Perhaps you did not know he was back in England. That he came from Paris with my nephew, Major Harry Westcott, and stayed with him for a while at Hinsford Manor in Hampshire. You almost certainly would not know that he married my niece, Abigail Westcott, less than a week ago and is in London to try to regain possession of his daughter. Your granddaughter.” Goodness, she had not even thought of that relationship until this moment.
“I confess,” he said, “I did not know of his marriage. You used the word try when you spoke of his taking his daughter home from her grandparents’ house.”
He was not going to deny that the lieutenant colonel was his son, then. And he clearly knew some things about him. Some fairly recent things. He knew the child was with her grandparents.
“General Sir Edward Pascoe and Lady Pascoe are determined to keep her,” Matilda told him. “They are determined to blacken his name and convince a judge that he is an unfit father. And they are powerful people.”
“More powerful than . . . my son?” he asked her.
“I very much fear so,” she said.
“But what is it you wish me to do, Matilda?” he asked, leaning slightly toward her, his dark eyes boring into hers.
She kept her feet planted where they were and did not take the step back she desperately wanted to take.
* * *
• • •
The following week was not a happy one.
A letter from Mr. Grimes arrived while they were at breakfast the morning after the tea at Elizabeth and Colin’s. In it he informed Lieutenant Colonel Bennington that there would be a hearing one week hence before Judge Burroughs to decide the issue of the custody of Miss Katherine Bennington. The lawyer was confident of success for his client but would appreciate another meeting with him the following day. There was no need to trouble his wife to accompany him. In the meantime Grimes strongly advised that his client gather as many testimonials to his character as he was able. Personal appearances would be better, but, failing that, letters would be desirable.
“With one week to go,” Gil said. “And I know no one, Abby. I would not know where to write to former commanding officers, and even if I did, there would be no time both to send a letter and to receive a reply.”
“There is Harry,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “There is Harry.” And he set his linen napkin down beside his half-empty plate and got abruptly to his feet. He left the hotel dining room without even asking Abigail if she was ready to accompany him.
From that moment on he almost completely retired into himself. He sent her on her way each morning to one member or another of her family, summoning a hackney carriage for her since their own would not be ready for delivery for several more days. She visited relatives, went shopping with them or to the library or a gallery, and smiled cheerfully, pretending to a happiness that was fast faltering.
She did not know how Gil spent the days. When she asked him each day on her return to the hotel, he gave vague answers. When she arrived back early one afternoon and went down to the stables with the idea of taking Beauty for a walk, she found the dog gone. But Gil did not menti
on later the walk he had presumably taken with her. He did not talk about anything else he did during those days either.
During dinner each evening she always told him about her own activities in exhaustive detail so that there would not be total silence. He made brief comments to indicate that he had been listening, but there were no reciprocal stories. They spent the rest of their evenings reading in the sitting room that was part of their suite. Or, rather, they held books open in their hands and directed their eyes at a page. Abigail even remembered to turn one now and then.
Worst of all, he stopped sleeping with her—and making love to her. He slept in the second bedchamber, which he had used merely as a dressing room for the first few nights.
“I am feeling restless,” he said by way of explanation the first night it happened. “I would not wish to keep you awake, Abby.”
She said nothing and made no protest. For she knew it was nothing personal. She understood that every moment of this week was like a nightmare to him. And she knew him well enough to realize that his first reaction to adversity was always to lock himself up inside himself so that he would not break apart. He had come close to breaking down and weeping, she knew, that one afternoon. She did not know if it would have been good if he had or if it would have spelled disaster. From childhood on he had learned to hide from the world in the only really safe place and the one that was always available to him. He had learned thus to cope alone with all that was bad and threatening.
But oh, she wished he would pull her in there with him. She was his wife. Moreover, she loved him. Yes, she did. Of course she did. It was purely silliness to pretend that she did not. It was why she had married him. Not because she was mindlessly in love, but because she loved the person he was. And she did know him even though he had confided so little. She knew the goodness and steadiness and kindness that were fairly bursting from the granite exterior he showed the world. She knew the dream of love and family and home that had sustained him through most of his life.
