by Mary Balogh
“I say,” a familiar voice said, “what the deuce is going on in here?”
“Bran!” Judith hurled herself into his arms.
“Jude?” he said. “Emngham? Bedwyn? What the devil?”
“You did not take the jewels, did you?” she said, raising her head and gazing into his pale, frowning face. “I am sorry I ever suspected you, Bran. It was dreadful of me, and I do beg your forgiveness.”
“What jewels?” he asked, his brows knitted together in a deep frown. “Has the world gone mad ?”
“Grandmama’s,” Judith told him. “They all disappeared just after you left in the middle of the ball, and the empty velvet bag and one earring were found in my room. Horace planted the jewels on the table over there in your rooms this morning together with the bonnet cap Aunt Effingham made me wear at Harewood and then he brought a Bow Street Runner here to find them. But the Duke of Bewcastle guessed it all and we arrived in time to catch Horace at it and now Lady Freyja and I have to leave the room because I think Lord Rannulf is going to f-fight Horace.”
She buried her face against his shoulder and burst into tears.
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” she heard Branwell say as she tried to control herself—she was dreadfully embarrassed. “Is that why you came on so nasty during the ball, Effingham, and then suggested that I go to Darnley’s weeklong gaming party to win enough money to pay you back?”
“How much did you win, Law?” Even now Horace had the gall to sneer.
“Thirty pounds actually,” Branwell said. “I say, thank you, Bedwyn.”
He took something from Rannulf’s hand and gave it to Judith—a large handkerchief. She stepped out onto the landing, dried her eyes with it, and blew her nose.
“I was about to bet it when I came to my senses,” Branwell said. “I would certainly have lost it all and then more on top of it. But with the thirty pounds I could pay you back for my traveling expenses, I thought, and then all those other debts when I could. And I will too. I left the party a day early and came back to town. Here!” Judith could hear him striding across the room. “Thirty pounds. And now I have some fighting of my own to do.”
Judith felt a hand on her shoulder. “Ladies always have to miss the greatest fun,” Freyja said with a sigh. “Come on, we will go home in Wulf’s carriage.”
“Fun!” Judith looked up at her with some indignation. Everything in her world had fallen apart and Lady Freyja thought it was fun?
But she did not resist the pressure of the other’s hand. Truth to tell, she could not get away fast enough. She felt deeply, horribly embarrassed even if she ignored all the more personal pain. That Lord Rannulf’s family should be witnesses to such sordid dealings involving her family! That they should know all about Bran and his foolish extravagances and Papa’s impoverishment! That they should know the villainy of her own stepcousin! That they should have witnessed her breaking down and weeping as if her heart would break! And to think that just a few days ago—was it really only three?—she had danced with Lord Rannulf and thought it might just be possible to listen to his marriage proposal and accept it.
How thankful she ought to be that something had happened to bring her to her senses.
Appropriately for the mood of the day it was wet outside. The rain was drizzling down, and they had to make a dash for the carriage.
“Ugh!” Lady Freyja said, shaking out her dress when they were seated within and the vehicle lurched into motion. “I will be glad to get home even though I would have far preferred to stay and watch.”
Home. It was the only word Judith heard.
“Lady Freyja,” she said, “may I beg a great, great favor of you?”
Lady Freyja turned a look of inquiry on her.
“Will you lend ... No.” Judith stopped herself. “I cannot ask for a loan. I doubt if I will ever be able to repay it though I promise to try. Will you give me the fare of a stagecoach ride to my home in Wiltshire? Please? I know this is dreadful presumption.”
“Why?” Lady Freyja asked.
“I have no reason to stay here any longer,” Judith said, “and I cannot presume on the Duke of Bewcastle’s hospitality anymore. I want to go home.”
“Without saying good-bye to Ralf?” Lady Freyja asked.
Judith closed her eyes briefly.
There was silence within the carriage for several moments.
“There are those,” Lady Freyja said quietly, “who would give a great deal to be looked at as Ralf looked at you back there in the room where we waited.”
Judith swallowed. “You cannot pretend,” she said, “that you did not see the ineligibility of such a connection the moment you set eyes upon me yesterday, that your brothers and your sister did not. Today you must have become even more aware of it. I am leaving as soon as I have fetched my bag from Bedwyn House, with or without your assistance. I would have thought you would be glad to part with the price of my fare just to have me out of Lord Rannulf’s life.”
“You know little about us Bedwyns,” Lady Freyja said.
“You will not help me, then?”
“Oh, I will,” Lady Freyja said.
Illogically, Judith’s spirits sank even lower if that were possible.
She had stood on the landing blowing her nose and not even looking around once, she thought. She had not turned to have a final look at him. All she had to remember him by was the handkerchief still balled up in one of her hands— and her straw bonnet.
“Thank you,” she said.
Chapter XXII
A few hours passed before Horace Effingham was led away from Branwell Law’s rooms under the escort of two burly men Bewcastle had conjured up from somewhere without ever leaving the room himself. Effingham was to spend the night in his own lodgings, under guard, and was then to be escorted back to Harewood Grange for his father to deal with, presumably in consultation with Mrs. Law, who was the injured party.
Effingham left with a red, bulbous nose and an eye that would be closed and black by the morning—both courtesy of Branwell Law within two minutes of the ladies’ departure. The Bow Street Runner had left a few minutes after that.
Rannulf had not laid a violent hand upon Effingham except to grab him by the scruff of the neck and hoist him up onto his toes a couple of times when he attempted obstinacy and insolence. Rannulf would have liked nothing better than to pound the villain to a bloody pulp, but Bewcastle’s cold, silent presence had a calming effect on him. What did violence prove, after all, but that one was physically stronger than the other? A physical show of force had been altogether appropriate outside his grandmother’s summer‘ house. Here it would have been mere self-indulgence.
Law produced pen, ink, and paper when asked to do so and Effingham was instructed to sit at the table and write his letters of confession and apology—one to Mrs. Law, one to Sir George Effingham, one to the Reverend Jeremiah Law. The task took almost two hours, principally because Rannulf did not like most of the letters. Before there were three that were acceptable to both him and Branwell Law— Bewcastle did not involve himself—they were both wading in crumpled-up sheets of paper that had been tossed to the floor.
The letters were sent on their way, franked by Bewcastle, before Effingham was led away. Detailed, abject, and groveling, they would arrive in the hands of Mrs. Law and Sir George before the culprit himself appeared. It would be a severe enough punishment, Rannulf decided, even though in some ways it seemed less satisfying than a thorough drubbing would have been. Public humiliation was a terrible thing for any man. Effingham’s face when he left, sullen and ugly with hatred and frustration, was testament to that. It would not be easy for him to return to Harewood, to face his father and his step grandmother.
The jewels, the rest of which had been fetched from Effingham’s lodgings, again at Bewcastle’s command, were to be returned to Harewood by special messenger.
“So,” Branwell Law said, sinking into a chair when Effingham and his escorts had finally left, ti
pping back his head against the rest and placing the back of one hand over his eyes, “that is that. What a ghastly to-do. And to think that I once considered him my friend. I even admired him.” He seemed to remember suddenly in whose company he was and sat up straighter. “I do not know what we would have done without your assistance, Your Grace, and yours, Bedwyn. I cannot thank you enough. Really. On behalf of Jude too. She did not deserve this.”
“No,” Rannulf agreed, “she did not.”
Law smiled uncertainly and looked from one to the other of them, clearly embarrassed now that he was alone with a duke and the duke’s brother.
“I want to know the extent of your debts,” Rannulf said, remaining on his feet and clasping his hands at his back.
“Oh, I say.” Law flushed. “They are trifling. Nothing I cannot handle.”
Rannulf took one step closer to him. “I want to know the full extent of them,” he said, “down to the last penny.” He indicated the table, still strewn with paper, ink, and one unused quill pen. “Write it all down, every last trifling amount.”
“Oh, I say,” Law said again. “I most certainly will not do that, Bedwyn. You have no business—”
Rannulf reached down, took hold of the young man’s neckcloth, and lifted him to his feet. “I am making it my business,” he said. “I want to know everything you owe— everything, do you understand me? I am going to pay your debts for you.”
“Oh, I say,” Law said for the third time, indignant now. “I cannot let you do that for me. I will come about—”
“I will not be doing it for you,” Rannulf told him.
Law drew breath again and then closed his mouth. He frowned. “For Jude?”
“You have all but beggared your family,” Rannulf said, “and are clearly about to complete the process. Miss Judith Law has already been farmed out to wealthier relatives, who treated her like a glorified servant. One of your other sisters is about to suffer the same fate. And there are two more as well as your mother at home. A young puppy is entitled to sow a few wild oats, tiresome as he may become to all who know him. He is not entitled to bring ruin and misery on his whole family. You are not entitled to bring unhappiness to Miss Judith Law. Start writing. Take your time and make sure you forget nothing. Your debts will be paid, you will be given enough ready cash to pay your rent and the barest of your expenses for the next month, and then you will support yourself on your own earnings or starve. One thing I will have your gentleman’s word on. You will never again apply to your father for even as much as a single penny.”
Law was white-faced. “You would do all this for Judith!” he asked.
Rannulf merely narrowed his eyes and pointed to the table again. Law sat, picked up the pen, and dipped it in the inkwell.
Rannulf glanced at Bewcastle, who was seated at the other side of the room, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers steepled. He raised his eyebrows when he met his brother’s eyes but offered no comment.
The following half hour passed in silence except for the scraping of Law’s pen and a few whispers as he added up columns of figures. Twice he got up and disappeared into the bedchamber to reappear with a bill.
“There,” he said at last, blotting the sheet and turning to hand it to Rannulf. “That is everything. It is a considerable amount, I’m afraid.” His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.
It did not seem a particularly enormous sum to Rannulf, but to a man who did not have the means with which to pay even the first pound of the debt, it must seem astronomical indeed.
“One word of advice,” Rannulf said. “Gaming can be a pleasurable activity if one has money to lose and if one sets strict limits on the amount one is prepared to bet. It is a miserable, hellish way to try to recoup nonexistent fortunes.”
“Don’t I just know it,” Law said fervently. “I will never make another wager in my life.”
Rannulf raised his eyebrows.
“Now, Mr. Law,” Bewcastle said, breaking a long silence, “you will tell me what sort of career you think yourself best fitted for.”
They both turned to stare at him.
“The diplomatic service?” Bewcastle suggested. “The law? The military? The church?”
“Not the church,” Law said. “I cannot imagine anything more tedious. And not the military. Or the law.”
“The diplomatic service, then?”
“I have always thought I would enjoy something in commerce or trade,” Law said. “The East India Company or something like that. I would like to go to India or somewhere overseas. But my father always said it would be beneath the dignity of a gentleman.”
“Certain positions are not,” Bewcastle said, “though of course a novice could not expect to occupy one of the hallowed positions in any company before working hard at lowlier tasks and proving himself.”
“I am ready to work hard,” Law said. “To tell the truth, I am rather sick of the life I have been living. There is no enjoyment in it when one does not have the money one’s companions have.”
“Quite so,” Bewcastle agreed. “You may call on me tomorrow morning, Mr. Law, at ten o’clock. I will see what I can do for you by then.”
“You would help me start a career?” Law asked. “You would do that for me, Your Grace?”
Bewcastle did not deign to reply. He got to his feet and picked up his hat and cane. He nodded curtly to Branwell Law by way of farewell.
“I trust Freyja had the carriage returned for our use, Rannulf,” he said.
She had. And it was a good thing too—it was raining. Rannulf left the seat facing the horses for Bewcastle and settled into the other with a sigh. He felt exhausted. All he wanted was to get back home to see Judith, to take her in his arms—he would not care if all his brothers and sisters were lined up to see him do it—and assure her that her ordeal was over, that all was well, that there was nothing left for them to do but waltz off into their happily ever after together.
“That was decent of you, Wulf,” he said when the door had been closed and the carriage was in motion. “The only chance he has to reform his life is to settle into a steady career. Yet without influence his choices would be severely limited.”
“You are planning to marry Miss Law?” his brother asked.
“I am.” Rannulf looked at him warily.
“She is,” Wulfric said, “despite the plainness of her dress and the severity of the style of her hair, quite extraordinarily beautiful. You have always had an eye for such women.”
“There is no one to compare to Judith Law,” Rannulf said. “But if you think I see nothing but her physical beauty, Wulf, you are wrong.”
“She has been something of a damsel in distress,” Wulfric said, “in more ways than one. The gallant urge to ride to the rescue can sometimes be mistaken for love, I believe.”
“She has never behaved like a victim,” Rannulf assured him. “And I am not mistaken. If you are about to recite all the ways in which she is not an eligible bride for me, Wulf, you may save your breath. I know them all and they make no difference whatsoever to my feelings for her. I have position, money, and prospects enough that I do not need a wealthy bride.”
His brother did not comment.
“I take it, then,” Rannulf said after some moments of silence, “that I will not have your blessing, Wulf?”
“Is it important to you?”
Rannulf thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said at last, “It is. You frequently infuriate me, Wulf, and I will never allow myself to be dominated by you, but I respect you perhaps more than I respect anyone else I know. You have always done your duty, and sometimes you go the extra mile for one of us even when it must be distasteful or tedious for you to do it. Like the time a month or two ago when you went into Oxfordshire to help Eve and Aidan regain custody of her foster children—the orphans of a lowly shopkeeper. And like what you have done for me today. Yes, your blessing is important to me. But I will marry Judith with or without
it.”
“You have it,” Wulf said softly. “I would not be doing my duty if I did not point out to you all the possible sources of future dissatisfaction, once the bloom of romance has faded. Marriage is a lifetime commitment, and we Bedwyns have always been faithful to our spouses. But your choice of bride is yours to make, Rannulf. You are of age, and it is you who must live with her for the rest of your life.”
Was that why Bewcastle had never married? Rannulf wondered. In his cold, calculated way, had he always considered the possible sources of future dissatisfaction? But as far as Rannulf knew, his eldest brother had never shown even the slightest interest in any lady despite the fact that for years he had been one of England’s most eligible bachelors. He had kept the same mistress for years, but no romance that might have led to matrimony.
“I am not expecting happily ever after, Wulf,” Rannulf said. “But I am expecting to be happy even after the bloom has faded from the rose. As you just said, marriage is a lifetime commitment.”
They did not talk anymore, and as soon as the carriage drew up before the doors of Bedwyn House Rannulf vaulted out and hurried inside and up the stairs to the drawing room. Alleyne, Freyja, and Morgan were there but not Judith.
“Ah, at last,” Alleyne said. “Come and tell us the rest of the story, Ralf. Apparently Free and Miss Law were banished at the most interesting moment. Let me see your knuckles.”
“Where is Judith?” Rannulf asked.
“In her room, I suppose,” Alleyne said. “Overcome by all the excitement, no doubt. Did Effingham put up a fight? If he did, he missed your face, even the large target of the Bedwyn nose.” He grinned.
“She is not,” Morgan said. “That is all you know, Alleyne. She is not in her room. She has gone.”
Rannulf looked sharply at her and then at Freyja, who was sitting unnaturally still and had not clamored immediately for a report on what had happened after she left Law’s rooms.
“She has gone home,” she said, “by stagecoach.”
