by Liz Carlyle
When he’d moved in, the place had been empty, save for Helene’s old nanny, who occasionally clucked at him but mostly just let him come and go as he pleased. And the place had an utterly fabulous rose garden, though he really did not talk about that a vast deal—after all, a man had an image to maintain. But most importantly, Hampstead was next to London and far from Chalcote, a fact which suited him well. He and Cam often needed a little distance.
When he had been young and foolish, he’d told himself that Cam was just jealous because Bentley was their father’s favorite. Randolph Rutledge had seemed to despair of his eldest son, seizing upon every opportunity to mock him. In hindsight, his father’s behavior seemed appallingly cruel, and Bentley was sorry for having fallen in with it. And he was sorry for some other, far uglier things, too. Cam had always been a bit of a nose-to-the-grindstone sort of fellow, yes. But thank God for it, else they’d all have drowned in the River Tick. Bentley was old enough now to see that someone had had to do the miserable job of dragging them out.
And yet Bentley had never been able to bring himself to thank Cam for the unutterable sacrifices he had made, the worst of which had been his first marriage, a disastrous union which had saved them all financially, even as it damned each of them emotionally. Cam had been forced to live with a vindictive, amoral bitch who despised him, Catherine had been impelled to marry too young merely to escape, and Bentley…well, no point plowing well-furrowed ground. Still, seeing the past so clearly now only made what had happened next seem more unspeakable. He would be bloody lucky now if he did not reap just what he’d sown.
Bentley tried to put it from his mind as he hobbled up the next hill, his favorite place. And when he topped it—the highest for miles around—Bentley could see his cousin Joan’s house, Bellevue, gleaming grandly in the distance. The place looked as foreign as a chunk of chalk in the midst of the Cotswolds, for his Aunt Belmont had had white Portland stone hauled halfway across hell just to build something grander and more unique than Chalcote.
Joan wanted to see him, she had said. And he wanted to see her, too. They were to have a long walk, and a long talk, and then Joan had something to tell him. But Bentley was not in the mood to share any more confidences, not even with Joan.
Suddenly, the dogs burst from beneath a raspberry thicket, their pink tongues lolling out as they raced up the hill, darting around the placid sheep. Planting his feet firmly on the ridge top, Bentley turned away from Bellevue to see Chalcote, now equidistant away. The manor house was like a little topaz gem nestled in a sea of olive velvet. Below it, he could see St. Michael’s and the churchyard, its gravestones so small and white against the grass they seemed as insignificant as flakes of snow. But they were not insignificant. No, not in the Rutledge family plot.
About a sen’night after her run-in with Bentley Rutledge, Frederica found herself persuaded to a game of bagatelle in the parlor with Michael one blustery afternoon. Winnie had dragged Gus and Theo to the vicarage for tea, but Michael had begged off, and Frederica had pled another headache. Thus far, the excuse had served her well, for she’d not stirred from home in days.
“Poor child!” Winnie had exclaimed as Gus stood in the hall, helping his mother with her cloak. “I do hope it won’t come to spectacles, but I daresay no one can suffer the headache as often as you and not be quite nearsighted.”
Theo had thundered down the stairs, pulling on his coat as he came. “My head aches, too,” he sullenly remarked. “Perhaps I oughtn’t go.”
Still holding her kid gloves, Winnie smacked him a cracking blow across the arm with one of them. “Do not be ridiculous, Theodore!” Her guinea-gold curls trembled with indignation. “Get yourself into that barouche this instant! You shan’t put off your duty another moment.”
Looking more like chastened boys than grown men, Gus and Theo helped their mother down the short flight of steps, casting a mournful look back at Michael and Frederica as they went. They set up the game table, and Michael offered her the choice of cues. Miraculously, Frederica potted the first six shots she called, and a quarter-hour later, she had the upper hand on Michael.
Suddenly, a shadow appeared at the door. “My lord,” said the butler. “Mr. Ellows has called. Shall I put him in the parlor?”
Frederica suppressed a gasp. Michael rested his cue on the toe of his boot. “Old Johnny, eh?” he said, shooting her a crooked grin. “What d’you reckon he wants? Send him in here, Bolton. Maybe Freddie can whip us both.”
Bolton bowed and left. At once, Frederica laid her cue across the table. “I shall let Johnny finish this match with you,” she said quietly. “I must see Cook about dinner.”
She had already turned toward the door when Michael caught her by the shoulder. “What’s this, Freddie?” His clear blue eyes searched her face. “No time for Johnny?”
“No.”
“Surely you don’t mean to cut him?”
For a moment, she held his gaze warily. “I just need to speak with Cook.”
But it was too late. Johnny stood just outside the door, sliding out of his elegant greatcoat and handing it to Bolton. “Good afternoon, Frederica,” he said, making a perfunctory bow. “And Trent, I trust I find you well?”
Michael merely laughed and tossed his cue down next to Freddie’s. “Well enough, considering I’ve just been thrashed,” he answered, turning to face her. “Freddie, I’ll see to some tea, if you and Ellows will excuse me. May I give Cook your message?”
Frederica eyed him darkly. But in truth, it was hard to blame Michael. He knew nothing of Johnny’s perfidy. “I am sure,” she said stiffly, “that Mr. Ellows has come to see you—”
“Actually, I haven’t,” Johnny interjected. And for the first time, Frederica realized how acutely uncomfortable he looked. “A word with you, Frederica, if I may?”
What sort of trickery was this? Freddie looked back and forth between Michael and Johnny. Left with little choice, she acquiesced.
Michael departed, leaving the doors flung wide for the sake of propriety. Frederica motioned toward a chair near the fire. “Will you sit, Mr. Ellows?”
But Johnny dipped his head and stared at her almost shyly. “Ah, you are still angry with me,” he said quietly. “Well, I cannot blame you. But I had to call, Freddie. I had to.”
“Why?” The word was sharp.
Johnny’s face colored. “We leave for London in the morning,” he muttered. “Papa has leased a house, you know. And I wanted to ask…well, if I would see you there.”
Frederica placed her hand on the back of the chair Johnny had refused and hoped he could not see her fingers digging desperately into the upholstery. “Why, I daresay you might,” she answered, her voice surprisingly calm. “It is not, after all, such a very large place.”
Johnny came deeper into the room. He stopped but a few feet from her and dragged one hand through his well-coifed hair. “Now, see here, Freddie, that is not what I meant.”
Very deliberately, Frederica lifted her brows. “Then what did you mean, pray?”
Johnny made a hissing sound between his teeth. “What I mean is, if I call for you at Strath House, will Lord Rannoch receive me? Will you receive me?”
A wave of confusion washed over Frederica, and she felt her knees almost buckle. Surely he did not mean…no, he couldn’t possibly. Out of stubborn pride, she regained herself. “I cannot think why it would matter to you, Mr. Ellows, but by all means—”
His hand came up, one finger touching her lightly on the lips. “Johnny,” he corrected, his eyes suddenly melting. “I am still Johnny to you, am I not, Freddie? Please say that I am.”
Slowly, she shook her head. “No, you cannot be,” she whispered. “Surely you see that? We cannot go on as if—as if we are still playmates. Or—or something else. Your affianced bride will frown upon it, as well she should.”
Johnny mumbled something under his breath. Frederica did not dare believe what she thought she’d just heard. “I am sorry,” she said, her he
art suddenly pounding. “Wh-what did you say?”
At last, Johnny sat down, his posture rigid. “I am not betrothed.” She heard him plainly that time. “My marriage to Hannah has been—well, it shan’t take place after all. There was, it seems, a difference of opinion.”
Frederica felt a cold horror steal over her. “What?”
Johnny lifted his eyes to hers, his mouth twisted with a wry smile. “Hannah has bolted to Scotland with her father’s steward,” he admitted.
But Frederica was slowly shaking her head. “Johnny, no.” Her voice was a horrified whisper. “No. This cannot be. You were to marry her. You said…why, you said you had no choice.”
Johnny shrugged. “Hannah, it seems, made herself a choice,” he admitted. “And a bloody bad one, too. Now she is to be cut off without a shilling, and I am to inherit Uncle’s property anyway.”
“Dear God, I cannot believe this!” Frederica felt suddenly ill. “Your cousin has given up everything to marry for love? And now her father will disinherit her? She has been brave.”
“Why, I daresay she has.” But Johnny had a satisfied look in his eyes, and Frederica wondered that she’d never noticed it before. “But she’s been rather foolish, too. Still, I am off the hook. I am free, it seems, to do as I please.”
“As you please?”
“We’ll take up, Frederica, where we left off.” He smiled and held out his hand.
But, still shaking her head, Frederica took one step backward. “No.”
The smile melted from Johnny’s face. “What do you mean, no?” he asked. “Freddie, don’t be stubborn. I did what I had to do. You cannot punish me for it now.”
Frederica sank slowly into the opposite chair. “I think you should leave,” she said hollowly. “I think it best you go this minute. And later, if—if you should care to leave your card at Strath House whilst in town, I am sure my cousins will receive you with pleasure.”
“And you?” Johnny challenged.
“I am sorry,” she answered. “But I shan’t.”
Johnny jerked to his feet. “My God, I cannot comprehend this!”
“I believe, Mr. Ellows, that you’d best try to come to grips with it.” Somehow, Frederica found the strength to stand, throw back her shoulders, and walk gracefully into the corridor and up the steps.
“But Freddie!” His voice echoed up the stairs. “Why are you doing this? Nothing has really changed.”
Oh, Johnny, she wanted to cry. Everything has changed.
She had changed.
Her mind still reeled from shock. Should she laugh? Or cry? Johnny Ellows was hers for the asking now. And yet she could not have him. Because in a fit of anger and confusion, she had done something far more foolish than his cousin Hannah, and she had done it for spite, not for love.
She slowed on the next landing, her hand grabbing hard at the stair rail. A part of her was tempted to marry him anyway. He deserved no better. And a part of her was appalled she could even contemplate such a thing. Then, hard on the heels of that came the knowledge, from somewhere deep in her heart, that it wasn’t Johnny she wanted. No, not anymore. It was a frightening realization.
It was a full fortnight after his arrival in Gloucestershire that Bentley spent a late and somewhat intemperate evening at the local public house. Memories and shadows had begun to torment him, and the urge to escape Chalcote had become almost tangible. Moreover, the Rose and Crown did a lovely rack of lamb, and the barmaid, Janie, had a bountiful rack of tits.
Janie had always been dear to his heart—and some of his other organs, too. But on this night, nothing—not even the lamb—had been to his taste. And so he’d merely propped himself up on his elbows near the tapster and bent the poor chap’s ear as Janie swished from table to table, looking daggers at his back. Bentley had stumbled back up the hill to Chalcote sometime past two.
Milford came at once to take his coat, then gave a little cough. “You had asked, Mr. Rutledge, that we give you your mail personally?” he said, draping Bentley’s coat over one arm.
Bentley was instantly on guard. “What has come?”
“Just this,” he said, withdrawing a letter from his pocket. “Her ladyship received it this morning. I apologize for the delay.”
“You gave my mail to Helene?”
“It was addressed to her,” he explained. “But when she opened it, she found a letter enclosed for you, forwarded from Roselands.”
Bentley snatched the letter, his stomach bottoming out. Oh, God. There it was. Gus’s handwriting scrawled across the velum. Fleetingly, he wondered why Gus had sent it to the Hampstead cottage when he’d plainly told Freddie he’d wait here in Gloucestershire. He thundered up the three flights of stairs to his bedchamber, but once there, he couldn’t dredge up the nerve to open it. Instead, he tossed the letter onto his dressing table, then went to the bureau to pour himself a drink. He oughtn’t have needed another, but he did. With a shaky hand, he pulled the stopper from the decanter and sloshed out two fingers of Cam’s finest cognac. Then, with a carelessness which would have made a Frenchman faint, he tossed it back in one swallow and waited for the burn.
And still, he couldn’t do it. For the next quarter-hour, he paced the floor of his room, considering what the letter might say. Well, not what it might say—that much he knew—but how it might be worded. Would Gus be after his blood? Or would he, perhaps, be glad that they were to be cousins? He tossed the letter another look where it lay, pristine and white upon his dressing table, and gave a bitter laugh. No, it most assuredly did not say that. It was one thing to be friends with a scoundrel, and quite another to have him marry into one’s family.
Perhaps it was a challenge? Not likely; Bentley had never been bested with pistols, rarely with swords. No, this was probably just a demand that he present himself at once at Chatham Lodge, fully sobered up and appropriately attired, with a special license in his pocket. His bachelorhood was ending, and a life of responsibility was beginning. At that thought, nausea roiled in his stomach, sending Bentley diving for the slop pot, something he’d not done in an age.
But as it happened, he couldn’t do that right, either. He found himself simply staring at a crack in the porcelain bottom. Good Lord. This would not do. He set the pot down and somehow got hold of himself. He was suddenly ashamed. He had to do right by Freddie. She was a sweet and tender thing. Better than he deserved. And now she was to be stuck with him, poor child. Finally, he sat down and slit Gus’s black wax seal. With an ice-cold calm, his eyes skimmed the words. And then skimmed them again.
What the devil?
The letter was little more than an apology! Gus had somehow got it into his head that Theo had locked Bentley out of the house. The entire family, or so the letter purported, was mortified. His valise, Gus wrote, had been carefully packed and sent on to Hampstead. They hoped he would favor them with another visit soon. Gus closed the missive with a slightly off-color remark about the redhead left pining for his attentions down at the Wrotham Arms.
Damn.
Damn and blast and bloody hell! That deceitful little witch! She had not told them! Not one word. It was obvious. Good God, how could she do this? How could she do this to her family? To herself? To him? What did she think? Did she think that he would not care? Did she somehow imagine that she could simply offer up her virginity to a fellow and then expect him to slink off quietly into the night? Suddenly, his hands were shaking again, but not with dread. It was with anger and with indignation.
By God, that girl was his. Surely she had better sense than to try to pass herself off as anything else? Surely marriage to him could not be the worst of her options? Could it? Well, good God! He did not know. He really did not know. Had he not proposed very prettily? Utterly begged her to marry him?
Well, those had been his words, anyway. And he had never once let himself believe that they would not be wed. He had not wanted it, of course. This was a lucky escape. He should account himself most fortunate. So why did he feel suc
h a black, boiling rage? Why did he suddenly yearn to get his hands around Freddie’s lovely throat? And why had he suddenly thrown open his wardrobe, yanked out his portmanteau, and begun to stuff his clothes into it?
Because there was no point in cooling his heels here. No point in waiting on a letter which was never going to come. By God, he would just forget about Freddie. When next he went to Chatham Lodge, he would pretend that…well, he just wouldn’t go. He would never go there again. Gus and Theo—even that pup Trent, if he wished—would just have to come down to London, where they could have some proper debauchery.
On that thought, Bentley stalked back to his dressing table, snatched up Gus’s note, and tossed it onto the coals which were now dying in his hearth. Then, flinging himself into his favorite armchair, he propped his elbows on his knees and watched the edges glitter hotly with yellow, then with red. And suddenly, the letter burst into flame and was gone.
For Frederica, the days dragged on, one into another, with a disheartening sameness. Johnny left for London, and she could not get Bentley Rutledge out of her mind. And when at long last Zoë came home, bursting with her usual exuberance and filled with tales about the cold, barren beauty of her father’s seat, Frederica could only listen with half-hearted attention. Nor could she bring herself to confide the depth of her folly to Zoë. And so, early one morning when she longed for a friendly face, she slipped into Zoë’s room and, in bitter, hushed tones, told her only of what Johnny had done.
Zoë, a dark little sprite of a thing, simply laughed her tinkling laugh and shrugged. “Good!” she said, padding across the room in her dressing slippers. “He does not deserve you, Freddie. You have crushed his heart with your boot heel, and I am glad. Now we will go to town, you and I, and take London by storm!”
