Unforgiven (The Horsemen Trilogy)

by Mary Balogh

  Mr. Gascoigne chuckled. “He was being very careful tonight, then, Ede,” he said. “Instead of dancing with one of the young girls, he followed the pianoforte player across the room and stood listening to her music. Now, if she had been young and pretty, we might have made something of it.”

  “The pale scarecrow?” Lord Pelham said. “We might still do it, Nat. My theory is that she is the very one. Our Ken has conceived a passion for an older woman, for a colorless cadaver. Perhaps he finds youth and plump beauty tedious after so long an acquaintance with them.”

  “You are being unkind, Ede,” Mr. Gascoigne said. “I daresay the lady is consumptive.”

  “Ah, then perhaps our Ken has conceived a passion—” Lord Pelham began.

  “And perhaps,” Kenneth said, “you would care to keep your mouth shut, Eden, unless you have sense to utter.”

  Lord Pelham winced theatrically. “I sense a challenge on the way, Nat,” he said. “I have caught Ken on the raw. He definitely has conceived a passion for the scarecrow. But she has spurned him. She is holding out for a duke.”

  “I believe, Ede,” Mr. Gascoigne said, “that Ken is offended by the way you are talking about one of his neighbors. And I will wager the lady really is consumptive. She cannot help her age or her thinness or her lack of looks.”

  “I say,” Lord Pelham said, sitting upright, his tone of levity suddenly gone, “I meant no offense, Ken. I do beg your pardon.”

  Kenneth smiled. “I understand,” he said, “that the Misses Grimshaw wish to show the two of you the beach and the quay. I suppose you will not want my company. Without me, you will have two each, one for each arm.”

  “As for myself, Ken,” Lord Pelham said, “I would just as soon have one lady on one arm—if the beach and the quay have any coves or caves or secluded nooks, that is.”

  “One can only hope,” Mr. Gascoigne added, “that the sun will shine tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” Kenneth said, “I must write to Rex. If he has bruised pride to nurse, he might as well do it here.”

  * * *

  BUT the idea of coaxing Viscount Rawleigh down to Cornwall died a swift death. Only a little more than a week after the arrival of his friends and before a reply to his own letter could reasonably be expected, Kenneth received a letter addressed to all of them. Rex had returned to Derbyshire after less than one full day at Stratton and was to marry Mrs. Winters within the week. He was intending to take his bride back to Stratton and hoped that his friends would call upon him there.

  His friends each read the letter in turn. They looked at one another, stunned. Rex about to be married? Indeed, he probably was married by now. To a woman who had very recently rejected all his advances and sent him scurrying home to Stratton?

  “Thereby hangs a mystery,” Kenneth said. “An intriguing one.”

  “The devil!” Lord Pelham said. “He must have ruined her and been forced to go back and do the decent thing. At Claude’s insistence, if I am not much mistaken. Claude is rather more respectable than his twin.”

  “Claude won’t like it above half,” Mr. Gascoigne said.

  “Neither will Rex,” Lord Pelham said dryly. “I was not under the impression that he had matrimony in mind when he was pursuing the lady.”

  “And neither,” Mr. Gascoigne added, “will Mrs. Winters like it, at a guess. She is probably no longer Mrs. Winters, of course, but the Viscountess Rawleigh. Deuce take it. Old Rex married.”

  “If you are right, Eden,” Kenneth said quietly, “and honor has forced him into it, he will not be a happy man. But better that, perhaps, than have her refuse to allow him to do the decent thing. At least he has retrieved his honor.”

  “I could not see any woman refusing a man who had ruined her,” Lord Pelham said. “His honor was never in much danger of being permanently lost, I daresay. Are we going to Stratton?”

  “So soon?” Mr. Gascoigne asked. “We have scarcely arrived here. And Ken’s ball is tentatively set for next week.”

  “It can be postponed. And there is such a thing as curiosity,” Kenneth said. “I have not even seen the lady.”

  “And none of us knows the real story behind the hasty marriage,” Lord Pelham said.

  “Besides,” Mr. Gascoigne added, grimacing, “Rex may need our moral support. Are we going to let him down?”

  And so they went. Kenneth went out of curiosity and out of a genuine desire to see his newly married friend and wish him happiness—if happiness were possible in a marriage that seemed to have had an inauspicious beginning. He went because all the hard work he had engaged in and all the social engagements he had honored and even the eventful week he had just spent with his friends had not been able to lift his spirits or erase his sense of guilt.

  Or his anger. He was angry with her. If she was making such a deal of her own sense of guilt, then why did she not simply marry him? If she was determined not to do so, if she was set upon marrying Baillie, then why did she not fight free of the unpleasant memories? It was unlike Moira not to fight. He resented the guilt her obvious loss of health aroused in him. He had tried to do the decent, honorable thing, and she had refused to allow him to do it. He could almost envy Rex.

  He went because his absence would perhaps set her free. She could not marry Baillie during his period of mourning, perhaps, but she could begin planning her future, shaking off the memory and effects of the unfortunate incident that had clouded her happiness. But how could she be happy about marrying such an ass as Baillie? It was not his concern. If he went away—and stayed away—perhaps he could do her some good and shake off some of his own damnable guilt.

  He had not believed it possible to resent or hate anyone as much as he resented and hated Moira Hayes. And even his resentment and his hatred weighed heavily on his conscience.

  13

  A LETTER had arrived at Penwith expressing Sir Edwin Baillie’s fond wish that Lady Hayes and Miss Hayes would honor him and his dear sisters by spending a couple of weeks with them at Easter. He had hoped for a far more joyful event to brighten the spring, but that was now, of course, out of the question. Even so . . . The letter continued at some length and ended with an assurance that Sir Edwin would send his own carriage and several stout servants to fetch the ladies to his humble home, where he and his sisters would await their arrival with as much eager anticipation as the melancholy circumstances of their lives permitted.

  “It is very civil of them to be willing to entertain us at such a time,” Lady Hayes said to her daughter. “But understandable, of course. I do believe Sir Edwin is genuinely fond of you, Moira. And his sisters must really be curious to meet you, especially since you are a distant cousin.”

  “It is a kind invitation,” Moira agreed.

  But her mother frowned at her. “Shall we go, then?” she asked. “You have still not recovered your health, Moira, despite the tonic Mr. Ryder prescribed for you. I fear that a journey of thirty miles will be too much for you.”

  Moira hesitated on the brink of assuring her mother that a change of scene and the company of new acquaintances were all that she needed to recover her spirits. The time for lies and evasion was fast disappearing. And Sir Edwin’s home was the last place she could go. She did think fleetingly that perhaps it would be best to go and speak with him face-to-face, but she knew it was an idea that could not be given serious consideration. She smiled and took the letter from her mother’s hand.

  “With your permission, Mama,” she said, “I will answer Sir Edwin’s letter myself. You may read it and give it your approval before it is sent.” Her stomach churned at the thought. But the time had definitely come.

  The time had come, in fact, for more than one letter to be written. Clearly she did not have the courage to say anything face-to-face. She must write, then. She sat at the escritoire in the morning room and wrote them both. She stared at the clock in disbelief when she was
finished. Had it taken her two hours to write two short letters? It took her another twenty minutes to summon the courage to get to her feet and go in search of her mother.

  Lady Hayes had just come in from the outdoors with an armful of spring flowers for the vases. She smiled at her daughter. “This lovely spring is making up for a miserable winter,” she said. “Are you going to walk to Tawmouth to post the letter? I believe the exercise will do you good.”

  “Mama,” Moira said, “sit down.”

  Her mother looked at her, seemed alerted to the fact that something was amiss, and sat. She took the letter for Sir Edwin from Moira’s hand and directed her attention to it.

  “Oh,” she said, looking up after a few moments, “you have declined the invitation. Perhaps that is a wise decision, dear. But I do hope Sir Edwin will not be hurt or offended. Have you explained that you are not in the best of health? I am sure he would be the first to urge you to remain at home if he knew that.”

  “Read on,” Moira said.

  Her mother read in silence to the end of the letter. She set it down in her lap and took a few moments to gather her thoughts.

  “Is this wise, Moira?” she asked. “What will become of us?”

  “I do not know,” Moira said. She had gone to stand by the window, though she did not really see the prettiness of the garden beyond it.

  “But that was a purely selfish thought and quite unworthy of me,” Lady Hayes said. “My own future is of no significance. I have never deceived myself into believing that this marriage would bring you any degree of happiness. But I did persuade myself that it would be a respectable match and would secure your future: You are six-and-twenty years old, after all.”

  “An old maid,” Moira said and then bit her lip. She should have chosen to call herself a spinster.

  “One ought to consider the possibility that this may be your last chance for matrimony,” Lady Hayes said. “You have had other chances, Moira, and have rejected them all. This may very well be the last. Would it perhaps be wise at least to go to Sir Edwin’s home and see him again? And meet his sisters? Perhaps you will find after all that marriage with him is preferable to no marriage and no prospects.”

  “I cannot, Mama,” Moira said quietly. She held the other letter in her hand. She would deliver it personally after posting the one to Sir Edwin. She would perhaps have a reply tomorrow or even this evening. But even so, she could not force herself to say anything else to her mother. She would not have believed before all this sorry mess started that she could be capable of such cowardice as she had shown during the past three months.

  Lady Hayes sighed. “It can bring on dreadful disgrace, Moira,” she said, “to break a formal engagement.”

  “Yes,” Moira said.

  “We may find that we are not so well received by our neighbors in future,” her mother said.

  We. Mama would be caught up in the disgrace, of course. That was the worst of it. If the consequences of sin could be confined solely to the sinner, they would be very much easier to bear, Moira thought. But she would not be the only one to suffer. There were Sir Edwin, his sisters, Mama.

  “I will be sorry for it, Mama,” Moira said. “More sorry for your sake than I can possibly say. But I cannot marry Sir Edwin.”

  Half an hour later, she was on her way to Tawmouth along the valley, which had become lushly green with spring. The river wound its sparkling way to the sea and the hills were loud with birdsong. But Moira could not enjoy her surroundings. Soon both letters would be out of her hands and a whole cycle of events would begin that she should have set in motion a long time ago. But there had been Sir Edwin’s bereavement—a poor excuse for such a long delay—and the continued presence of Lady Haverford at Dunbarton—an even poorer excuse. Anyway, she had left more than two weeks ago. But other visitors had followed closely on her heels.

  That was certainly no excuse. It was perhaps the arrival of his friends that had brought Kenneth to Mr. Trevellas’s a week ago. She had had the perfect opportunity there. She had steeled herself to speak. She had opened her mouth and drawn breath.

  But he had spoken first. He had been cold, angry at the fact that she was making a great to-do about nothing. Angry that just the sight of her was reminding him of his own guilt.

  You escaped the worst consequences of that night. You told me at the end of January.

  It was really nothing so very dreadful, Moira. Nothing to put you into a decline like this. It is time you put it behind you, forgot it. I forgot it long ago.

  Moira winced again at the pain his words had aroused and felt again the anger that had provoked her unwise response and had sent him away before she had said what she had planned to say.

  So today what she had to say must be stated in a letter. Today she must ignore the fact that there were visitors at Dunbarton. Their presence was no excuse at all to avoid going there. If she came face-to-face with them, it did not matter. She only hoped she would not come face-to-face with him—not today, not before he had read her letter. She could, of course, have had one of the servants from Penwith deliver it to Dunbarton for her, but it seemed somehow important to her to do it herself.

  It was a long walk, first into Tawmouth, then up the hill to the cliff top, and then along the road above the valley to Dunbarton Hall. The sun was high in the sky when she reached it and there was surprising warmth for the time of year. How different the sloping, shaded driveway looked now from the way it had looked the last time she saw it, Moira thought—and shivered.

  His lordship was from home, the footman who answered her knock at the door informed her. Moira explained that she had come merely to deliver a letter for the Earl of Haverford.

  “Will you see that it is given to him?” she asked, holding it out with one hand. Her heart was beating so loudly that she wondered the servant could not hear it. Once the letter was taken from her hand . . .

  But the butler had appeared in the hall, and the footman stepped to one side.

  “Is it an invitation, ma’am?” the butler asked after making her a stiff half bow and looking with disapproval beyond her shoulder to note the absence of an accompanying maid. “If it is, I beg leave to inform you that his lordship will be unable to accept. He is from home.”

  “From home?” she said. An afternoon outing would hardly prevent him from accepting all invitations.

  “His lordship left this morning to go into Kent for an undetermined length of time, ma’am,” the butler said. “I do not expect his early return.”

  Moira stood looking at him, her hand still outstretched. This morning. I do not expect his early return. She felt the beginnings of an all-too-familiar coldness in the head.

  “Would you care to sit down for a while, ma’am?” the butler asked, peering at her in some concern.

  “No.” She returned her hand to her side and smiled at him. “No, thank you. I must be continuing on my way.” She hurried off back through the courtyard and scarcely slackened her pace all the way home. When she was descending the steep road to the valley, she determinedly did not look right to where the picturesque stone baptistry overlooked the valley and the little waterfall.

  More than a week passed before she returned to Dunbarton and asked to speak with the Earl of Haverford’s steward. She had to wait almost half an hour while he was fetched from somewhere out of doors, and he was clearly surprised both by her appearance at Dunbarton and by her request. But he did agree to enclose her letter with the report he would be sending his lordship within the week.

  It was all done, she thought as she made her way home, raising an umbrella to shield herself from the light drizzle. Everything was out of her hands now—for the moment at least, though she had still not told Mama.

  * * *

  KENNETH had found just the medicine he needed—or so he persuaded himself. He got quickly caught up in someone else’s problems. Viscount R
awleigh was at Stratton with his bride the morning his three friends arrived from Cornwall. In fact, he was outdoors with her and standing on a bridge the earl’s carriage must drive over. Kenneth leaned forward and rapped on the front panel to signal the driver to stop, and then he sat back while Lord Pelham and Mr. Gascoigne jumped out to a great deal of loud talk and laughter and excited barking from a small dog. He was eager to see Rex again and to meet his bride.

  But he made an immediate and horrible mistake. He jumped out of the carriage, hugged Rex, greeted him, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see the bride, who was laughing with Nat and Eden. But as soon as his eyes alighted on her, he recognized her. He had seen her in London six years before when he had been sent home to recuperate from his wounds. He had even danced with her once or twice at ton balls. She was Paxton’s daughter—the Earl of Paxton.

  “Why, Lady Catherine,” he said before he could notice the dawning shock and dismay in her eyes. Half a second later, he saw shock also in the eyes of his three friends—a look that was quickly veiled in Rex’s. And he remembered. Eden and Nat had called her Mrs. Winters, a widow. They had said nothing about her being Paxton’s daughter, Lady Catherine Winsmore. Winters, Winsmore—very similar. Had she been married? Had she been a widow? What had she been doing in Derbyshire? Had she been living there incognito? Did his friends—and even Rex—not know her true identity?

  The noise, the hearty laughter resumed, but Kenneth knew that damage had been done. And his fears were confirmed when he was finally alone with Nat and Eden some time later. No, indeed they had not known, they assured him, and it seemed a reasonable assumption, given his quickly controlled reaction, that Rex had not known either. He had married a woman without knowing her true identity? He had married her without knowing that six years ago she had been totally disgraced in an association with London’s worst blackguard and rake? Gossip had even had it that she had been with child and certain it was that she had suddenly disappeared. Kenneth had by now remembered those facts—far too late.