by Cardon, Sara
Reginald slipped into the room next, his face uncharacteristically drawn. They each stood along the wall, arms folded. Lord Beauchamp’s gaze remained fixed and unfocused as Lord Bloomsbury finished the depressing poem. Perhaps something unrelated to her bothered Lord Beauchamp.
Marjorie leaned close to Aunt Harriet. “Do you think the Beauchamps had a row?”
Aunt Harriet studied the men, a lift to her brow. “It would appear so.”
The countess leaned towards Aunt Harriet, her dark eyes taking in the men. “Hmm. Competing again, I’d dare say. It is high time Lord Beauchamp bested his younger brother. The price is too dear this time.” Lord Bloomsbury took a bow to tepid applause.
Miss Winters leaned forward. “I’ve known them for ages. Miles and Regi have always enjoyed a friendly competition.”
Reginald snapped up the book beside Marjorie, and she jumped. He shook his head and smiled at Miss Winters lazily. “Competition? There’s no competition.” He settled in beside Marjorie, a little too close. Lord Beauchamp stood a pace away, his face unreadable.
The next performance began before she could form any words. She could not focus—not with Reginald pressed beside her and Lord Beauchamp staring a hole in her head from his nearby seat.
24
Road to Ruins
The morning was cool as the small group set off to walk to the Rockingham Mausoleum. A breeze blew Marjorie’s skirt, and she admired the way the light fabric ruffled like a cloud. Reginald trudged beside her, and Marjorie tried to slow her steps to accommodate him. Miss Winters led the way, and a few clusters of people spread out along the forest road. Lord Beauchamp walked several paces ahead and stopped periodically to examine the moss covering the trees or a mushroom, keeping within a short distance of them.
Reginald kicked a rock. “Why are we looking at a mummy's sarcophagus anyway?” His mood was turbulent, veering from teasing to ill-tempered.
She raised her brows. He didn’t have to do anything if he didn’t wish to. “No mummy. The sarcophagus is empty.”
“Then it’s not a mausoleum.” His hair fell over his eyes.
“That’s true,” she said, smoothing her dress. There was nothing like a grown man who sulked. “But it is a beautiful monument that bears a striking resemblance to the Mausoleum of the Julii. Both have three stories and Roman pillars.”
He gave a short laugh. “I have no interest in ruins. How do you know about Roman architecture?”
Marjorie clenched her skirt, stung by his derision. “I read.” She turned her head, intent on ignoring him. She resigned herself to his sour mood.
Reginald exhaled. He took her arm and she slowed to a stop. “I’m in a dashed bad mood. Please forgive me.”
She opened her mouth to accept his apology, but Lord Beauchamp glanced back and her heart leapt into her throat. The way he looked at her—with his piercing blue eyes and an air of sadness—shifted something within her.
“Lord Beauchamp,” she called before thinking it through. He turned fully towards her, raising his brow. “Will you join us?” Her heart sped.
“I would appreciate the company, thank you.”
Reginald huffed.
“Mr. Wright came to see you today,” Lord Beauchamp said to Reginald as he fell into step beside her.
“He is your solicitor. Not mine.”
She rushed to break the tension. “I found a poem on nature. I thought to share it last evening. Would you like to hear it?”
Reginald answered with enthusiasm. She had wanted to share it with Lord Beauchamp, but not like this. Reginald clapped when she finished. “Well done. The sight of daffodils do make one cheery.” At least his mood swung back to jovial.
“I have a volume of poetry with that very poem.” Lord Beauchamp picked a wildflower. “I appreciate Wordsworth’s simple style—no flowery language. Very well chosen poem, Miss Fairchild.” With each word and look from Lord Beauchamp, Reginald’s contrary presence faded into the background.
“Yes, I borrowed your book at Strathford once. It is where I first read Wordsworth.” Marjorie’s cheeks felt warm.
He tilted his head and smiled. “I forget how similar our pasts are.”
“Not very similar,” she whispered, even while experiencing a sense of release at his attempt to find similarity in their situations.
He handed her the lacey white flower. She spun the stem, touched by the simple gesture.
“What other books do you enjoy?” he asked.
Reginald called out to Mr. Webb and ran to catch up with him, leaving her to enjoy a cocoon of perfect contentment with Lord Beauchamp.
She listed her favorite books, mostly art and ancient architecture. The way he listened and focused on her warmed her. Their shoulders kept brushing as they discussed his tour of the Colosseum.
“I’m not sure I really saw what was before me when I visited Italy and France.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
She could picture him walking the streets of Rome to get from his hotel to a landmark, forgetting to enjoy the scenery along the way.
“Have you seen the Roman Ridge near Somerstone?” he asked.
“No, I haven’t. What is it?”
“A road built by the Romans. It isn’t a replica.”
“Truly?” She smiled. “Will you show me?”
He flashed a brilliant smile in answer.
Reginald called out from further up the path. “The Rockingham Mausoleum.” He pointed to the trees to the east.
The monument came into view above the trees—a dome supported by a ring of columns. She wanted to run the rest of the way. When the full three-tiered monument was visible, her breath caught at its beauty.
Her eyes adjusted to the shadows as she stepped into the open doorway of the ground floor. She marveled at the domed ceiling and statue in robes at its center. “This could be in the south of France.”
“Except for the statue of a British prime minister.” Miss Winters’ voice echoed in the chamber. She stepped past Marjorie, shaking her head.
Reginald laughed. “Not very French.”
“I’ll race you to the top.” Miss Winters strode off. Relief flooded Marjorie when Reginald chased after her. Lord Beauchamp passed by her to look at a mosaic.
Marjorie lost herself in studying the combined artistry of the monument. As she circled the statue, one conversation amid the reverberating voices caught her attention. Mr. Webb stood near a niche speaking with Mr. Oscar Easton, who stood with his arms folded over his broad chest.
“Reginald’s gambling debt is nothing to worry about.” Mr. Webb spoke in low tones.
She squinted to concentrate on the inscription below the statue.
“Yes, but he’s acting as if he is the heir, not the second son,” Mr. Easton said. “I like a good competition, but I know when the stakes are too high.”
“He has a tidy estate coming to him from a great uncle once he pops off, and an income from his family.” Mr. Webb caught Marjorie watching him, and his jaw clenched. Her eyes widened and she moved for the stairs.
“I side with Lord Beauchamp,” Mr. Easton said.
“Miles is far too high-handed. Reginald told me his older brother carries a substantial gambling debt of his own.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“He and Reginald are always competing, you know,” Mr. Webb said.
She slid her gloved hand on the cool iron railing, glad to be out of sight.
“Miles and Reginald have a bet over who can win Miss Fairchild.” Mr. Webb’s hushed voice penetrated into the stairwell.
The hair on the nape of her neck prickled. She froze on the third step, unable to move.
“I’ve noticed their spirited contest for her,” Mr. Easton said. “I can’t imagine either man would marry her, if the rumors about her social class are true.”
“They are true.”
Marjorie’s hands began to shake. Webb was a snake. She wouldn’t believe anything he said. Lord Beauchamp woul
d never wager with his brother. She was sure of it. For the most part. But some of what Mr. Webb said had a ring of truth. Her confidence wavered as doubt pressed down.
Lord Beauchamp gave her no reason to doubt his sincere interest. But he did try to keep Reginald away from her. And he showed up in place of his brother too often to be a coincidence. Hadn’t the countess remarked on the brothers always competing? Could Lord Beauchamp’s interest in her be feigned?
Several people brushed past her on the stairs, their voices a booming cacophony.
She shook her head. No, Lord Beauchamp was not a man to trifle with a woman’s affections. She believed him sincerely interested and attracted to her. But she’d known all along he would never marry her. Their social stations prevented it, and he clung to respectability and honor. So why did she feel hollowed out? The flower fell from her shaking hands. Her knees felt weak, and she sank down onto the steps, wilting like a spent bloom.
“Marjorie?”
The voice shocked her, and blood rushed to her head, making her dizzy. She leaned more heavily against the wall.
Strong hands encircled her waist. “Can you breathe? Are you alright?” Lord Beauchamp demanded.
She nodded, her chin trembling.
“Answer me clearly. You’re worrying me.” His gaze darted over her face.
Lord Beauchamp was close, his body warm and solid, and his hands anchoring her. So why did she miss him so desperately her chest ached? “I’m fine. I was walking too fast and tripped,” she lied.
Miss Winters and Reginald rushed down the stairs at the same time Mr. Webb and Mr. Easton began their ascent. Lord Beauchamp released her.
“Is everything alright? Miss Fairchild, do you need the doctor?” Mr. Easton asked.
“Sorry to frighten you. I tripped, but I’m fine,” she managed to say. Mr. Easton’s shoulders relaxed, Reginald expelled a breath, and Miss Winters nodded crisply. Everyone except Lord Beauchamp walked away, leaving her on the stairs.
“Here, take my hand. We’ll take it slowly and make sure you’re steady on your feet. I’ll take care of you,” he whispered. She desperately wanted to believe his comforting words.
Marjorie took his offered hand but could not meet Lord Beauchamp’s eyes. She was afraid of what she might see in them.
25
Dual Desires
Marjorie twisted in her chair, resting her hands along the back. “Must we stay, Aunt Harriet?”
“Let Sally finish your hair, dearest.”
The abigail stroked the brush along the nape of her neck and secured her hair taut enough to stretch her eyes.
Aunt Harriet’s reflection shone with confusion. “Why would you wish to return to London? Tomorrow is the ball. Are you unwell?” Her aunt pressed a cool hand to her forehead.
Yes, she was unwell. Her heart ached with a pang similar to homesickness. Wherever home may be, since it certainly wasn’t with her father in Strathford any longer, nor was it her aunt’s home in London. Marjorie reached back to loosen the knot and ran her fingers along her scalp to relieve the strain. “I crave solitude today.”
Yesterday’s allusions to a wager between Lord Beauchamp and Reginald stung sharp and fresh. Her mind grew tired from replaying Mr. Webb’s offhanded remarks to Mr. Easton, sifting and weighing if there was any truth to the gossip. If a wager existed, which of the guests knew? Her shoulders sagged. How had she been duped into believing she belonged here?
She had almost allowed herself to believe Lord Beauchamp cared for her. And she had fallen in love with him. Her eyes pricked with tears at her foolishness. A competition between the brothers made more sense than true regard. A hairpin stuck her scalp and she winced.
“Sorry, poppet,” Sally murmured.
Marjorie nodded. She could not bear the humiliation of being the object of a wager. Not again. Neither man would win, because she would keep to herself. If it came to it, she would reject them before they could reject her. Not only was she mortified at potentially being a prize, but Lord Beauchamp seemed like too much of a gentleman to behave in such a way. Doubt weighed her down, and her head ached from sorting through the possibilities.
Aunt Harriet took Marjorie’s hands, pulling her to her feet. “Dearest, I won’t allow you solitude today, but I will pray you find peace. Stay by my side while I assist in preparations for tomorrow’s ball.” She released her, and Sally pulled the dress over Marjorie’s head and began smoothing and tucking.
“You have so much of your mother in you,” Aunt Harriet said with a sigh.
“My mother?” Marjorie shook her head, her thoughts still clouded in confusion. Her mother had married far beneath her station, shocking society into apoplexy. Sally finished and left to tidy the room.
Aunt Harriet drew close and touched Marjorie’s chin, her voice soft as she said, “She did not care for worldly praise either. She learned how to lead a life in a different rank because she loved your father and he loved her. You couldn’t be around them without witnessing their love, kind of like a miracle.” A hint of mischief came into her eyes. “The same way I’ve seen you and Lord Beauchamp look at each other.”
Marjorie’s body flushed with heat, and her mouth opened and closed. A fledgling hope settled around her. She reached out and caught hold of Aunt Harriet’s smooth hand. Even if she was terrified of opening herself up to humiliation or heartache, she needed to find out for herself if Lord Beauchamp was the man she thought him to be, and if he loved her. Only, how was she to find out?
26
Reputation be Hanged
Miles leaned forward, resting his hands amid the papers on the table, as he and his solicitor studied the documents from Lombard Street in London. Silence filled the study, but Miles railed internally. His credit—his good name—had been damaged.
“Our contact went through considerable effort to get this from the Cheque Clearing and Exchange,” Wright said.
Miles managed a nod of acknowledgement. He strode to the door to see if Reginald had arrived yet. There was no sign of him.
He returned to examine the offending cheque, which lay undisturbed on the table with his signature for £5000. His vision blurred as he tried to make sense of it. The handwriting appeared to be his own. The letters slanted to the right, the ink applied with the same pressure, the letters formed in the exact shape he used. His thoughts spiraled.
Wright picked up the cheque, turning it over, his brows pulled low. “Paper from the Bank of England. Your printed form for drawing a note. Stamped and signed.” They had gone over the facts again and again.
“I did not sign this.” Miles ran his hand through his hair.
“We could never prove the signature is not by your own hand.” Wright dipped his chin, appearing thoughtful. “You will be made to honor this payment.”
“To a man at a gaming hall.” Miles rubbed between his eyes. “My good name as a gentleman could be damaged if I pay—it will be as good as admitting I am the gambler. And my name is tainted if I do not pay it, because a gentleman meets his obligations and keeps his word.”
“We will get to the bottom of this.” Wright appeared calm. No bouncing knee to give away his agitation.
The door opened and Reginald strode in, smoothing his hair back. Miles tugged the cuffs of his sleeves. The sight of his carefree brother sparked the ember of carefully banked anger inside him.
“Glad you could join us,” Miles ground out.
“Well, it is early in the day,” Reginald said.
Miles extended the reclaimed cheque.
“What is this?” Reginald asked as he read and reread the document. Miles watched as understanding crossed his face. He swallowed and tried to return the cheque as if the paper might be diseased. “I had nothing to do with this.”
Wright took the proffered paper. He cut a glance at Miles, silently asking if he believed his brother. He did not. Reginald may not be fully responsible for the cheque, but Miles believed he knew something.
Wright cleared hi
s throat. “Mr. Beauchamp, this is a cheque written as if from your brother’s hand. We wonder how an exorbitant sum, written on his cheques, which are kept in his sole possession, and signed in a strikingly similar hand, could come about. Please enlighten us.”
“It was not me.”
“Right then. Well, Freshfields Prison holds those awaiting trial on forgery charges,” Wright said.
Reginald blanched and his hand dropped to his side. He glared at Miles. “Tell me, what about this upsets you most? I’m curious. Is it worry over your reputation or your money?”
Miles’ throat closed. “My concern for you.”
Reginald scoffed.
“Forgery is a hanging offence,” Wright said.
Reginald tugged his cravat.
“Tell us what you know, and we may be able to help you,” Miles said.
Reginald stared at the floor. He smiled, but it turned into a grimace. “I never meant for this to happen, you know.”
Miles’ stomach churned and he resisted taking a step closer. He had expected Reginald to deny knowledge of the forgery—and he had hoped Reginald was innocent. He hid his surprise at the forthright words, ignoring the guilt on his brother’s face. “No? What did you expect?”
“He owed money and asked me to help. So I introduced him to some friends who . . . possess an unusual set of skills.” He paced to the cold fireplace and turned abruptly to face them again. “Things got hot for him, and I owed him money—and I know what happens when someone crosses him—so I let him stay. But I had no idea he had done this to you.”
Miles leaned his palms on the table. He wanted the culprit’s name.
Wright beat him to it. “And his name.”
Reginald pursed his lips, his hairline beading with sweat. “I am a drain on our family. A disgrace. The only thing I excel at is my rapport with others.” His smile was sad.
Miles strode forward and clasped Reginald’s shoulder. “You don’t need anyone’s approval. You need respect.” Starting with self-respect. “Tell us what you can, and we will do everything in our power to help. Do you want my help?”
