Four Weddings and a Sixpence

by Julia Quinn

  She seemed inclined to argue the point, but after a moment, she bit her lip and gave a reluctant nod. “Very well,” she said. “I won’t tell Papa or anyone else about Mr. Hammersmith, and I won’t reveal to anyone what I’ve learned today. I give you my word.”

  With that, she opened the door and departed, and as he watched her go, he knew he’d just taken the biggest gamble of his life. He could only hope it hadn’t also been his biggest mistake.

  Ellie stared out the window of her room at the house in Portman Square. There wasn’t much of a view now, for the rain was pouring down and night had fallen, but it hardly mattered, for in her mind’s eye, there was only one view, and it wasn’t a picture of the neatly pruned trees and manicured patch of lawn visible beneath the streetlights below. No, the only thing she could see was a column of accounting entries denoting purchases of tin and prices paid.

  What could a factory that manufactures guns possibly want with tin?

  She slumped against the window, resting her cheek on the cool pane of glass, Lawrence’s question forming a sick knot in her stomach. It was the same sensation she’d felt upon her discovery of the book and letters in his desk. It was fear.

  A carriage rolled past, neighbors departing the square for the evening amusements of the season. Ellie had an engagement this evening, too—supper and cards at Lady Wolford’s with her father. But though she was already dressed in evening clothes and the darkness outside told her it must be nearly time to depart, she did not move from her seat by the window.

  She felt curiously lethargic. Her wits seemed thick as tar. The only thing she seemed able to think about was what she’d discovered this morning, and Lawrence’s suggestions for what she ought to do with her newfound knowledge.

  Look him in the eye as if you don’t know anything, and ask him about the muskets and about the fire that burned down his factory.

  She’d never deemed that necessary. Throughout her life, there had been rumors surrounding her father’s munitions factory, and suspicions about how it had burned down. There had been speculation about how his income from his estates could possibly support his lavish lifestyle. But to Ellie, all that had been nothing but malicious gossip. To her, his innocence had always seemed obvious, and the rumors so absurd that she’d never felt the need to ask her father for explanations. Her faith in him had always been her armor against any whispered rumors.

  But what if her faith in him had been misplaced?

  The moment she asked herself that question, everything within her wanted to shout that it was impossible. And yet, the questions kept coming. What if the rumors were true? What if her father really was a war profiteer? What if, when confronted by Lawrence, her father had lied?

  That, she realized, was what made his guilt seem so impossible. Her father was not a liar.

  Or was he?

  She tried to consider the question objectively. She thought back to her childhood, but in all the memories of her life, she could remember no lies. The dislocated shoulder she’d had falling out of a tree when she was nine—Papa had told her straight out how much it was going to hurt before he’d popped it back in place. She went further back, to when she was five years old and Mama was sick. She’d asked him if Mama was going to die, and with infinite tenderness, he’d told her the truth. And when the end was near, and she’d wanted to say good-bye, he’d ignored Nanny’s protests and taken her into the sickroom. And when he’d held her on his lap in the nursery afterward while she’d sobbed her heart out, he’d smoothed her hair and told her that everything would be all right, but he’d also told her that her life would never be the same without her mama. He’d been telling the truth then, too.

  Never, not once, could she remember Papa ever lying to her about anything, even if a lie would have been kinder, or easier, or more convenient. That, more even than her love for him, was what made her faith in him so absolute and Lawrence’s accusations so absurd. She’d been sure, sure with all her heart and soul, that her father would never lie to her.

  Ah, but lying to her wasn’t the issue, was it?

  That pesky little question slithered through her mind like the serpent’s whispers to Eve in the garden, insidious, persistent, and impossible to ignore.

  Her father had never lied to her, that was true. But she had never been the one to ask him any questions.

  And when Lawrence had done so, accusing him straight out of war profiteering, he had denied it unequivocally, even going so far as to swear on the grave of his dead wife that he was innocent.

  Despite such solemn assurances, Lawrence had not believed him and had acted accordingly. Ellie still wasn’t sure if ambition had played some part in Lawrence’s actions or not, but she did know that he wouldn’t have proceeded if he had believed her father’s denials.

  She’d always thought Lawrence’s refusal to provide her with actual evidence meant he didn’t have any, but now she was forced to face the fact that he did, for she’d seen at least some of it with her own eyes. He’d said there was more.

  But no matter what evidence Lawrence had, there could be sensible and innocent explanations for all of it. Even as that thought passed through her mind, so did Lawrence’s suggestion.

  Ask him.

  The door opened, and Ellie turned her head as her maid, Morrell, came in. “The carriage has been brought around, my lady.”

  Ellie stirred, but she didn’t move, for ennui still enveloped her like a fog. “The carriage?”

  “Yes, my lady. To take you and His Lordship to Lady Wolford’s. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

  “Oh no, of course not.” She mustn’t have sounded very convincing, for a little frown creased the other woman’s brow, and Ellie felt compelled to invent an explanation. “It’s only that talk of the carriage surprised me. It’s just two blocks to Lady Wolford’s, and we usually walk.”

  “It’s pouring rain, my lady.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Ellie sighed, trying to work up the will to move. “Where is Papa?”

  “He’s downstairs, waiting for you.”

  With those words came all the implications of the evening that lay ahead, and the knot that had been sitting in Ellie’s stomach all afternoon twisted tight and made her feel sick. Supper and cards meant she’d have to sit across from her father at the dining table and perhaps at the card table. He’d know something was wrong. He’d see it in her face. How could it be otherwise? There was no way she could hide from him the doubts that plagued her.

  “I’m not going. Tell Papa to go without me.” She turned away, feeling like the most craven of cowards. She’d assured Lawrence she wasn’t afraid of anything, but she was. Oh God, she was.

  It wasn’t what her father would see in her face that she feared. It was what she might see in his.

  Ask him.

  “My lady?”

  Ellie jumped, looking toward the door to realize that her maid was still there. “I’m sorry, Morrell,” she mumbled, and rubbed her fingers over her forehead. “Was there something else?”

  “Are you . . .” The maid paused, and Ellie looked at her, only to find Morrell’s frown of bewilderment had deepened to one of concern. “Are you all right, my lady?”

  “Of course. I just have a headache, that’s all.”

  “Would you like some tea brought up? Or a tray of supper?”

  Ellie’s stomach lurched, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head. “No. Nothing, thank you.”

  “Very good, my lady. I’ll tell your father you won’t be going, and then I’ll come back up to dress you for bed. You’ll have a hot water bottle, too,” she added almost defiantly, as if she expected Ellie to argue about it. “You could be catching a chill. Or the ague.”

  The ague was not what ailed her. “I’m perfectly well, Morrell. I don’t need cosseting. I’m not a child.”

  I’m not a child. I’m quite capable of facing unpleasant truths.

  Suddenly, the fog that had been enveloping Ellie all day dissipated
, and she felt as clear and cold and sharp as a sunny day in January. “Wait,” she said as her maid turned to go. “Never mind, Morrell, I will go down and talk to my father myself.”

  She squared her shoulders and strode past her astonished maid. “I will talk to him right now.”

  Chapter 8

  A loud clap of thunder sounded, one loud enough to divert Lawrence from the account book, reports, and letters spread across his desk. He glanced at the window as lightning lit up the sky, and in that brief flash, he saw that the rain was coming down in absolute sheets.

  The lightning vanished again, returning the sky outside to pitch black and making him appreciate that the hour must be quite late. The last time he’d looked up from his work had been to light a lamp at dusk.

  A glance at his pocket watch verified that it was half past eight, but he had no intention of going home, for he had a great deal of work yet to do.

  After letting Ellie go this morning, he’d ventured belowstairs to inform Mrs. Pope that her new housemaid was gone and would not be returning, and while he was there, the footman had given him his letters from the morning post. One of them had been from Hammersmith, agreeing to testify if Lawrence could promise immunity from prosecution and protection from Daventry.

  Lawrence had returned to his office at once, and he’d spent every moment since then sifting through the accounting ledger Hammersmith had given him, working to link together all the pieces he had in a report for Sir Robert Peel. That report would also recommend immunity for Hammersmith, and suggest in the strongest possible terms that the committee be convened at once with a view to demand the Earl of Daventry come before the House of Lords and answer for his crimes.

  Lawrence was determined to finish the report tonight and present it to Peel first thing tomorrow. Once that was done, the matter would be out of Lawrence’s hands, and he could return his attention to all the other duties of his position, duties he’d been neglecting in his pursuit of Daventry.

  With a wry glance at the stack of files and papers collecting dust at one end of his desk, he tucked his watch back in his waistcoat, banished any thought of going home, and returned his attention to compiling his report. It took another hour for him to finish, but at last, he was able to put down his pen.

  He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his tired eyes. He’d done all he could to see justice served, and by tomorrow, Daventry’s fate would be in the hands of his peers. Lawrence knew he ought to be relieved, but when he thought of Ellie, relief was not what he felt.

  He was sure she would keep the promise she’d made to him this morning; at least, he was as sure as one person could be about another. For though Ellie loved her father beyond reason, she had far more character, kindness, and courage than her parent would ever possess, and he was positive she would keep her word. But about other things, he was not so sure.

  Would she confront her father, as he’d suggested? And would it matter? Daventry would surely lie to her, and she could very well choose to believe him, despite what she now knew. She might not believe him, and yet still carry on with her plans to marry Bluestone in an attempt to save the earl from his fate, gambling that Wilchelsey would come up to snuff despite the evidence.

  But what if she made a different choice? Hope rose inside him, but he quashed it at once. If her father was arrested, tried in the House, convicted of war crimes, it would be a humiliating experience for her and her entire family, and she could very well see Lawrence as the man responsible for her family’s shame. How could there be any place in her heart for him after that?

  A tap on the open door had him looking up, and he was startled to find the object of his thoughts standing in the doorway.

  “Ellie?” He stood up. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

  She made a rueful face as she stepped inside his tiny cubbyhole of an office. “That’s the second time in about twelve hours you’ve asked me that exact question.”

  “Yes, well, you’ve developed an unnerving tendency to pop up in the places I least expect you to be.”

  Before she could reply, the stalwart frame of Jim McGowan, the night watchman, moved to stand behind her in the doorway. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, doffing his cap. “I told ’er visitors aren’t to be ’ere at this time o’ night, and that it’s against the rules. But . . .” He paused, self-consciously twisting his cap in his hands, giving Lawrence a piteous look. “But she’s a lady, sir.”

  As a gentleman of low rank, Lawrence fully appreciated the pressure brought to bear on commoners to give way to the aristocracy in all circumstances. He didn’t always agree with that particular rule of society, but he understood it. “Quite so, McGowan. You may return to your watch. I will see the lady out myself.”

  The watchman nodded and donned his cap, giving Lawrence a look of gratitude. Then he departed, closing the door behind him, and Lawrence returned his attention to his unexpected visitor.

  “You should not be here, Ellie,” he said, gathering up his report, letters, and papers, and stuffing them into Hammersmith’s ledger. “Not at this time of night,” he added as he opened a drawer of his desk and dropped the ledger inside. “And certainly not unchaperoned.”

  “I know. I was supposed to be at a supper party, but I pleaded a headache, and Bunty and Papa went without me. After they’d gone, I ducked down the back stairs, hailed a hackney, and came here to see you.”

  “Ellie, if this is an attempt to persuade me not to go forward with my investigation—”

  “That’s not why I came.”

  “Good, because I have no intention of stopping. In fact,” he added, driven to underscore the facts as brutally as possible, “I’m giving my recommendation to Peel first thing tomorrow that the committee be convened—”

  “Lawrence, I didn’t come to dissuade you from that course. I came because . . .” She paused and took a deep breath. “I wanted to see you.”

  “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “I remember how fond you are of working in the late hours, when it’s quiet and no one’s around to bother you.”

  It was his turn to smile. “Well, I don’t know if ‘fond’ is quite the right word—”

  He stopped mid-sentence, his attempt to lighten the situation demolished as he noted the pale weariness of her face. “Ellie, are you all right?” When she didn’t answer, he shut the drawer, circled his desk, and closed the short distance between them in two strides. “What’s happened?”

  “I needed to see you because I . . .” She paused and looked up, meeting his gaze. “I followed your suggestion.”

  Hope and joy and relief rose in him, shooting up like fireworks, but he tamped those emotions down and told himself not to jump to any conclusions. “What suggestion would that be?”

  “I talked to my father.”

  “And?” He edged closer to her. “What was the result?”

  Her brown eyes seemed to darken, looking suddenly haunted. “I think you can guess,” she whispered.

  “He admitted culpability?” Even as he put forward that notion, Lawrence just couldn’t credit it, and he was not surprised when she shook her head.

  “No. I never asked him to admit anything. I didn’t . . .” She paused, ducking her head to stare at the floor. “I didn’t have to.”

  Lawrence frowned. “I don’t quite under—”

  “All I asked him was what metal muskets are supposed to be made of.” She looked up and gave a laugh, a soft, humorless sound that twisted his heart in his chest. “All these months—years—I’ve denied that the gossip about Papa was true. And when you came to me six months ago, I would not let myself believe you, especially since you refused to show me any proof. But when I asked him about muskets today, his answer and his face told me everything. I saw the truth as plain as day.”

  “What was his answer?”

  “‘Steel and brass, of course.’ That’s what he said. And he said it without hesitation, without even blinking, looking
straight in my eyes, so, so glib, as if he’d been waiting for the day when I would start asking questions. And that’s when I knew he knew all about those faulty guns. I knew what you said was true. Because he never asked me why I’d want to know something like that.”

  “Do you think he realizes you know the truth about him?”

  “I don’t think so, although I can’t be sure. It’s amazing,” she added softly, “how one simple question, when you finally work up the courage to ask it, can destroy everything you thought was the truth.”

  He watched a tear slide down her cheek, glistening in the lamplight, and he wanted to cut his heart out. He’d started this; he’d pushed her down this road. He had wanted her to learn just what sort of man her father was. Now he’d gotten his wish, and he felt like an utter bastard in consequence.

  “Ellie,” he began, and moved closer, but when he put a hand on her arm, any comforting words he’d been about to utter went straight out of his head.

  “God, woman,” he muttered instead, grasping a fold of her dark green cloak, “you’re absolutely dripping.”

  She laughed a little at that, a genuine-sounding laugh that lightened the weight pressing his chest. “Well, it is raining,” she pointed out, brushing the tear from her cheek with her gloved fingertips. “Pouring down in sheets. And I was so anxious to come and find you that I forgot my umbrella. Your watchman wouldn’t open the gate for my driver, but he let me through and brought me here. Crossing your courtyard, I suppose I got soaked.”

  Erotic images of Ellie with wet, transparent clothes clinging to her body flashed through his mind, making him acutely aware of the intimacy of their situation. “We need to get you home,” he told her. “Before you catch a chill.”

  “No, no, I’m perfectly all right. Please,” she added as he started to argue. “I don’t want to go home. Not yet.”

  Letting her stay was not, he knew, a good idea. Already, he could feel desire rising up within his body. “Ellie, you can’t be out like this at night. It’s not proper.”

  For some unaccountable reason, she smiled. “This from the man who’s always saying propriety isn’t important.”