by Cardon, Sara
“I do.” Reginald nodded, lifting his head. “Yes, I do. Only, I will not marry Miss Winters. I could never pull her into the mess I’ve created.”
“Very wise,” Miles said.
Reginald lifted a brow. “Never in my life have I been accused of being wise.” He dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. “Uh, there is another matter I should mention, if I am going to right a few wrongs. There is a rumor of a wager between you and me, in regards to winning Miss Fairchild.”
Miles stilled. “Wait a moment. There is a rumor about Miss Fairchild?”
“Apparently some men are putting money on who they believe will win her regard—you or I. Just to be clear, I did not start the wager. The rumor is recent, but has spread like wildfire.” Reginald halted. “You were going to win it anyway. I found no harm in it, since really nothing was at stake.”
Miles winced as his heart turned over. “Nothing at stake?” He spoke through clenched teeth. “I can withstand slander and false accusations, but Miss Fairchild—” He bit off his utter despair at the fall she could take in connection to his brother and him. “Don’t you understand? The slightest hint of misconduct can shatter her reputation irrevocably. Does Miss Fairchild know of the rumor?”
“I’m not certain,” Reginald said.
If she had heard the rumor, her tender heart would be deeply wounded. Miles’ own heart twisted in pain. She must know none of it was true. He desperately hoped his chances with her were not diminished. He needed Marjorie to know he sought her in earnest. He needed her. He loved her. He meant to take things slowly, but if needed, he would lay his heart bare.
Eager not to waste a minute, he set off to find her. “Wright, pull the name out of Reginald without me. I have something more important to attend to.” Resolve lengthened his strides. Marjorie’s heart and a future together swung in the balance. His good name and reputation as a gentleman be hanged.
27
Closing In
Marjorie wrung her hands. She glanced inside the Marble Ballroom to see who was present this afternoon. Sunlight glinted off the polished surfaces. Tomorrow night this room would shine in soft candlelight from the many chandeliers. A second-level balcony surrounded the ballroom, where Aunt Harriet directed servants arranging roses.
Marjorie’s bravado had quickly faded beneath glances which were—what? Curious? Concerned? Sympathetic? Each time she glimpsed a suit, she feared Lord Beauchamp would materialize. She hid by the doorway, no longer certain she could face him or anyone else.
“Who are you hiding from, Miss Fairchild?” Lady Du’Breven asked from behind her. Marjorie jumped, and her heart skipped in alarm. The countess’ round face sagged, but her eyes remained sharp as an eagle’s.
Marjorie bit her lip. “I would like a moment to collect myself, but Aunt Harriet doesn’t want me left alone.”
Lady Du’Breven fiddled with the pearls around her neck as she pondered. “I know just the thing.”
The countess spoke with Aunt Harriet, then led Marjorie past the entryway’s double staircase to her personal study, a room covered in red wallpaper and flanked by books. The countess opened a closet door wide. Marjorie frowned in confusion at this odd turn of events. Until she saw light streaming in through a window within the small space. The promise of undisturbed solitude refreshed her.
“Thank you, my lady.” Marjorie curtseyed. Perhaps Lady Du’Breven was not as conniving as she once believed.
“Take all the time you need.” Lady Du’Breven gently closed the door.
The wood floor squeaked under Marjorie’s weight as she walked the few paces to the dormer window. She touched the cushioned chair, the only piece of furniture, and stared into the light for some time. Blessed silence surrounded her. She took a seat, removed her gloves, and withdrew the sketchbook and pencil from her reticule.
The book opened to a page with Lord Beauchamp’s image. She traced his strong jawline, the stern set of his brows over clear eyes. When they first met in the garden, she believed him unfeeling. But now she knew he wrapped the few he cared for in a protective cover. How she wished he truly cared for her. She turned the pages, glimpsing battledore and crushed feathers, the footman Damen (who brought lemonade and lent a listening ear), her father’s face surrounded by rain and trees, the North Star, the stable block, the fountain. She clutched her chest, her heart constricting like a vise. How she would miss her time with Lord Beauchamp. How she wished away the rumor. If she was a lady equal to Lord Beauchamp, then she would have no need to fear something sordid in his attentions.
She moved the pencil across the page, the lead chaffing against the paper as a drawing emerged. Shadows of two men—the rough workers who had wagered over her three years ago—blended into the darkness of the two tarnished Beauchamp gentlemen who wagered now. A tear ran down her nose and onto the page. She gritted her teeth. She was more than her circumstances. More than the status given to her at birth.
The door to the room creaked open, and she startled, unsure how much time had passed. “Lady Du’Breven, I lost track of time.” Lord Beauchamp bent under the open doorframe and her heart beat rapidly.
“My lord.” She stood, her book and pencil dropping to the floor with a soft thud.
“Rest assured, Lady Du’Breven is just outside this door, acting as chaperone. She took pity on me.” He stooped to retrieve her book and pencil, balancing them on the armrest. His warmth heightened the rays of sunshine, his sandalwood scent wrapped around her, and his presence sucked the air from the room.
“Are you well? I haven’t seen you since our walk yesterday, and I’ve missed you. Have you recovered?” His dark brows settled low as his blue eyes roved over her face.
She held her breath, determined to be unaffected by him. “Yes,” she choked, unwilling to discuss her crushed hopes, or her disillusionment with his character.
He swept his hands along the window sash. “There is a rumor in regards to you and me. I have just been made aware of it.” He waited, watching her. “I want to assure you it is untrue.”
The air grew thicker. She studied the floor, unable to meet his eyes. “I did hear of it,” she whispered.
His boots touched the toes of her slippers. “Oh Marjorie.” Sadness permeated his voice. “Look at me. Please.”
She glanced up, more from shock at his use of her Christian name than his directive. He seemed so sincere, but how could she tell? She was not a good judge of character. Her chest burned. She inhaled, the sound embarrassingly loud.
He reached for her hands, but stopped himself, rubbing his jaw instead. “It is vicious gossip. There is no truth to it, I assure you.”
The words sank in slowly. Wariness put her on the defensive, and she tried to allow herself to believe him. Her thoughts remained arid, her mind struggling to absorb his reassurance. But of course he would not do something dishonorable.
“I have known you a long time,” he continued. “Your character is above reproach. A lady of your quality should be treated with respect. It reflects badly on whoever gossiped, not on you.”
She found her voice. “I believe you. Thank you for telling me. I have been troubled by it,” she admitted.
Lord Beauchamp’s posture relaxed and he glanced around the small space. “In a house this size, you chose this room to seek refuge?” His tone seemed deliberately light.
She had been absorbed in their conversation, but this situation was not ideal, even with the countess near. They were standing too close. “We should—” she began, but he put a finger to her lips, shocking her system into silence. Her body trembled, battling attraction to this man with her confusion as to his intentions. What had brought on this boldness in Lord Beauchamp?
“Marjorie, I need something to be clear. I admire you more than any woman of my acquaintance. You are resilient, gentle, and strong.” He trailed his hand from her shoulder down to her hand, taking her fingers in his palm. “I want to spend each moment with you. You are a calm influence amid the storm.” H
e glanced up, and her breath caught at the sincerity in his gaze.
Their eyes held, and the air around them charged like a thunderstorm. He gently tugged her hand, and she stepped closer, placing her other hand on his chest. She could feel his heartbeat pounding as his eyes continued to look at her with a hunger she felt in the pit of her stomach.
His gaze lowered to her lips. She wanted nothing more than to let her eyelids close, to take one step closer, but fear held her suspended. If she allowed him to kiss her, would the magic holding her spellbound turn to ash? Would he toss her aside once he triumphed? What did a kiss mean? Engagement? Love? Lust? A conquest?
She removed her hand from his chest and took a step back. He moved with her, as if in a dance, but she held up a hand to stop him. He froze.
“But then why? What are . . .” She rasped, unable to finish her question. Why did he show interest in her. What were his intentions? Her father’s concern over some gentlemen’s offers for a mistress crossed her mind with revolting clarity.
“I apologize if this seems too fast. I will gladly follow you to London and court you properly.”
She felt lightheaded and desperately wanted to believe the etchings of his promise. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, making her head ache.
He stepped closer, taking her hands in his. Concern crossed his features. He cupped her shoulders in his large hands. “Marjorie, can you breathe?”
How many times had he asked her this? But once he brought it to her attention, she realized she had been struggling for air. She panicked, eyes wide.
She clutched her throat, fighting to draw in air. The attack had come on quickly, or perhaps she had ignored the signs. The more she fought to pull in air, the more the room began to press in, suffocating her. Her legs weakened under the weight pressing down on her chest. Strong hands supported her elbows and guided her into the chair.
“Lady Du’Breven,” Lord Beauchamp shouted. “Send help immediately. Miss Fairchild is suffering an attack of the lungs.”
Time seemed to slow down. She tried to think of the words of her song, but fear chased the tune away. Dust particles glittered in the sunlight streaming through the window, enveloping the world with a dreamlike quality. Her vision clouded along the edges as she tried to breathe, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Lord Beauchamp’s arms came around her, one enveloping her back and the other under her legs. A sense of safety overcame her as he lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the nook in the study. The air cooled. The hum of his deep voice soothed her as he spoke, the words coming distant. “. . . coffee . . . fresh air . . . my love.” She leaned her cheek against the hollow of his throat and held on.
28
The Dead of Night
Marjorie awoke from a dream of Lord Beauchamp into the darkness of night. She didn’t want wakefulness; she wanted to be with him. She tried to recapture the dream. He had swept her into his arms and kissed her.
Cool air drifted in through the open window, cooling her heated cheeks, and moonlight bathed the world in stark black and white. The sound of crickets floated over the stillness of the night. For several minutes, she thought over Lord Beauchamp’s visit in the nook, and his denial of the wager. She believed him. He said he would follow her to London, which made her heart soar. The thought of him courting her opened her mind to endless possibilities. She stretched, enjoying the movement.
A chair creaked, and Aunt Harriet’s capped head came into view above her bed. “Dearest, are you awake?” Her smooth hand touched Marjorie’s forehead.
“Yes.” Marjorie cleared her throat, groggy from disuse. “What time is it?”
The bed sagged where Aunt Harriet sat next to her, smoothing her hair, over and over again. “Just past midnight. I must have dozed off.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “You caused us an awful fright. Lord Beauchamp was beside himself with worry.”
Peace settled over Marjorie, as quiet and gentle as the darkness enveloping the night.
“We managed to give you devil’s snare. Your breathing and heartrate eased over the course of an hour. Then you slept so deeply I worried, but Dr. Hill said it was to be expected after your body worked so hard. You’ve slept for thirteen hours. How do you feel?”
“Good, but still tired. I cannot believe I slept for thirteen hours.” Marjorie moved her arms, luxuriating in the soft bedding and the ease of breathing in lungful’s of air. “What have I missed?”
Aunt Harriet laughed softly. “What makes you think I would know? I’ve been sick with worry and watching over you.”
Marjorie turned on her side, patting the mattress and making room for Aunt Harriet to lie down. She stretched out on the bed with a sigh, massaging her neck again. Marjorie asked, “What has Sally heard from the servants about Miss Greystock’s latest prank on her suitor?”
Aunt Harriet fluffed the pillow under her head. “Sir James seems to have taken it as a sign of encouragement.”
Marjorie laughed. “I cannot imagine Miss Greystock so lively as to play a trick on him.”
“I can,” Aunt Harriet enthused.
“And Miss Isabel Townsend’s admirer?” Marjorie tucked her hands under her chin, and waited.
“Lord Anthony got the severe Miss Townsend to smile like a schoolgirl.” Aunt Harriet yawned.
Marjorie smiled in the darkness and closed her eyes. “I need to see that. And her sister, Miss Anne?”
“I have nothing to report. Mr. Tauney Easton is still making his case, I believe.”
“What about Miss Standish?” The plucky young woman seemed downcast of late. Marjorie couldn’t sort out how Lord Ian could act so contrary, as if he were a completely different person. Perhaps it was due to his fallout with Miss Standish.
“She is angry and Lord Ian stays out of her way,” Aunt Harriet supplied, her speech slowing. “Don’t ask me about Miss Easton. I can’t keep up with her or her brothers.”
“She darts past them so often, and they regroup as if it is a game of strategy,” Marjorie said, remembering how the Easton brothers protected their sister.
Aunt Harriet murmured agreement, her eyes closed.
Marjorie sighed, content in the moment. Her muscles were relaxed and her breathing easy. “Aunt Harriet?”
“Yes?”
“I want to go to the ball tomorrow.”
“We shall see what the doctor says. I am glad you are well, dearest.”
“Thank you for caring for me.” Marjorie kissed her aunt’s forehead and arranged the covers over her. She settled in, breathed the cool night air deeply, and allowed her consciousness to roam, until dreams of belonging, sandalwood, and strong arms enfolded her.
29
Well-laid Plans
Miles resisted the urge to tug his cravat as guests overflowed the ballroom. Dread knotted his stomach. Reginald had revealed the forger’s name. They had plans in place to arrest Webb, but he had made himself scarce of late.
Webb’s valet had prepared him for the ball, so the arrest would take place tonight. Reginald would lead Webb near the servants’ staircase, where he would be arrested. A simple enough plan, but Webb had yet to show.
How long would this take? Miles' insides twisted in worry and longing; he wanted this done with before Marjorie arrived. Mrs. Jones had assured him she was recovered from her lung seizure, and Dr. Hill had given Marjorie permission to attend the ball. She was due to arrive in a quarter of an hour. Miles hefted his pocket watch, confirming the time. He ground his teeth. Confound it, where was Webb? His neck and back muscles tightened. Nothing was going according to plan.
“Stop pacing.” Reginald sat hunched in one of the Queen Anne chairs, dragging his palms over his trousers, a sheen to his pale face. “He must show up. Webb may not look it, but he’s desperate. Don’t be surprised if he puts up a fight.”
Miles nodded. Reginald was the key to catching Webb, and his cooperation would help clear his name. He had also identified several members of the forgery scandal, wh
ich reached from London to as far as Dartmoor Prison in Princeton.
Guests entered the ballroom through the hall at ground level and from the first floor balcony. Miles scanned those descending the stairs, then darted a glance to find the men who would help arrest Webb, each standing ready. Once they found Webb, Reginald would take charge. Miles hoped his brother was up to the task.
“Lord Lieutenant Halstead is here,” Reginald said. “The constable has arrived.”
Though the last time Miles checked, the constable’s men had yet to take their places near the servants’ staircase.
Reginald rubbed his eyes and Miles paced.
Miles wanted this business over so he could attend to Marjorie as soon as she entered. Her lips had been tinged with blue by the time the doctor arrived yesterday. Though she struggled to breath, she was still able to drink the coffee laced with devil’s snare. By the time the episode passed, his heart had been wrung out. He wanted to stay and watch her breathe, to assure himself she was well, but propriety obliged him to leave her bedchamber and let others care for her. His chest pinched at the remembrance and he rubbed at the spot.
“Lord Beauchamp.” Lady Du’Breven bore down on him. “What is the meaning of this vexing press gang in my ballroom?”
He pursed his lips, seeing his oversight in not including her in their plans. She missed nothing, and they had not accounted for her interference. “My lady, the constable intends to apprehend someone, and we are lending a hand. No one will witness it or be the wiser.”
Her wrinkled mouth puckered. “Stop immediately. You may not run pell-mell and cause a scene.”
“If we wait, we will miss our chance and he will be gone.” If he had not already left. “I assure you it will be handled discreetly.”
