by Mary Balogh
He knew about Rachel, she thought.
“I have heard mention of the fact that you called on Mrs. Harper the day before yesterday,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “I did.”
“I suggested to you at Lady Trevor's ball that she is perhaps not a suitable associate,” he said. “Yes,” she said. “You did.”
“Yet you visited her, Abby?”
“Yes, I did.”
He searched her eyes with his own. “Are you able to tell me why?” he asked.
It would be easy. In fact, it was unavoidable. She would tell him everything, and he would be able to advise her on how best to see to it that she would have the bringing up of Bea and Clara. Ii would be a great load off her mind to confide in him. And he would go with her to Rachel's that afternoon.
But he would know. He would know whom he had loved the (right before, whom he had called beautiful. He would know on whom she had spent five of the six thousand pounds he had placed at her disposal.
She wanted him to love her, to admire her, to respect her. “I just thought it would be the polite thing to do,” she said, “having made her acquaintance at Lady Trevor's.”
“It was not done in defiance of me?” He frowned.
“No.” She shook her head.
“It was not like the cutting of your hair?” he asked, smiling fleetingly.
“No.”
“I thought perhaps it had something to do with your brother,” he said. “I thought perhaps you had heard that he was gambling there and had gone to beg Mrs. Harper not to let him play too deep.”
“Yes,” she said, brightening. “That was exactly it, Miles. I did not like to tell you. But you guessed it for yourself. She was very kind and understanding. She said that she will not allow Boris to play cards there again. She had suspected, of course, because he is so young, that he is not a hardened gambler, and she has no wish to see him go to his ruin or end up in debtor's prison. We had tea together and we were in quite amicable accord by the time I left. She is not near as bad as you think, Miles. She ...”
He was looking keenly at her. He still held her hands. And he knew, of course, that she was lying. She wished she could recall her words. She wished she had told the truth or at least simply told him that she could not say why she had been at Rachel's. But it was too late now.
“She was kind,” she said lamely.
“I am glad,” he said, squeezing her hands again. “I shall see about setting your plan in motion as soon as possible, Abby, and your brother will have no more need to go to Mrs. Harper's or anyone else's. You will not be going there again yourself, then?”
She swallowed. “No,” she said. And she felt wretched saying it. It was one thing to lie about a past event. It felt infinitely worse to lie about the future, to assure him that she would not go to Rachel's again when she knew very well that she would be calling there that very afternoon.
“Abby,” he said, “you are not in any trouble, are you?”
“Trouble?” she said. “What sort of trouble would I be in?”
“I don't know,” he said. “You have not incurred any rash debts and find that you cannot meet them?”
“No, of course not,” she said.
“You would tell me if it were so?” he said. “You would not be afraid of me?”
“How silly you are,” she said. “Is it because I asked for all that money in advance? It was just that I want to buy some pretty things for the girls before we go into the country. And I want to buy Christmas gifts this year. There have been no gifts for three years, except what I could make myself. And I am not skilled with my fingers.”
“Christmas in April, Abby?” he said.
She smiled lamely at him.
He raised one of her hands to his lips and kissed it. “Don't ever be afraid of me, will you?” he said. “I want a marriage with you, you know, not a master-servant relationship.”
“How foolishly you speak,” she said. But she gazed into his eyes and had to swallow against a lump in her throat. She wished she could go back—even ten minutes back—so that she could give different replies to his questions.
But to tell the truth? To admit to him who Mrs. Harper was? And who the two children were that he had agreed to allow her to bring up in his own home? And what her father had been?
And who was she? But no, she need never tell that. No living soul knew of that except her.
“I have promised to visit Prudence this morning,” she said. “She was kind enough to invite me, even though your mother and Constance are still a little cross with me. Though Constance has been a little mollified by my having my hair cut, since she believes I did it on her advice, and I did not like to disabuse her mind.”
“And I agreed to be Thornton's sparring partner at Jackson's this morning,” he said. “Will I see you at luncheon?”
“Yes,” she said, “but if we don't hurry, we can just walk in to luncheon from here, Miles. I must go.”
“Go, then,” he said, bending forward to kiss her on the lips and releasing her hands at last. “Shall I dispose of these invitations, or will you see to them later?”
“I shall,” she said, turning to the door.
“Shall we spend the afternoon together?” he asked. “The Tower, perhaps?”
“Oh,” she said. “I have agreed to go walking with Lady Beauchamp.”
She bit her lip as she anticipated his reply.
“Again?” he said, eyebrows raised. “Did you not walk with her the day before yesterday?”
Yes, she had, and had forgotten until the words were on their way out of her mouth. Besides, it was raining and not suitable for walking at all. She hated lying. She would not see Rachel after today, she vowed to herself, and she would never ever lie to Miles again.
“She is becoming a particular friend,” she said, hurrying through the door before he could make any further comment.
“I did not anticipate that I would have so much trouble with the house,” Mrs. Harper said. “It is not easy to go away for a year or longer, Abigail, and make suitable arrangements for one's absence.”
Abigail walked to the window of the small cluttered office where she had been entertained on her previous visit to her stepmother. She said nothing.
“The house is rented, of course,” Mrs. Harper explained. “Now, you might think that it would be best for me to let it go, but then there is all the problem of what to do with my possessions. Besides, I like the house and the location and would like to know that it will be here on my return. But the owner is demanding a whole year's rent in advance. And of course there are staff to be paid, and I would like to leave the tradition of entertainment I have been at some pains to build in the hands of a manager. Sadly, Abigail, I do not see how I am to go to the Continent after all.” She sighed. “But perhaps it is as well. Doubtless the summer spent with my daughters will be more rewarding.”
Abigail watched a pair of pedestrians moving slowly down the street, though she did not see them at all.
“How much?” she asked.
Her stepmother laughed. “You have been kind enough already, Abigail,” she said. “I could not possibly ask any more of your kindness. It could not be done on less than two thousand pounds, and I would not ask that of you.”
Abigail turned from the window. “You are asking,” she said. “But the answer is no, Rachel. I was foolish to give in to you the first time. I might have known that the demands would never end, that the girls' future would never be securely established this way. I suppose I did know, but I hoped. I used to like you and feel sorry for you. I thought you were decent, that only Papa's drunkenness and cruelty had driven you to do what you did. Maybe it was so, but no longer. You have become a heartless woman who will use two helpless children—your own daughters—to gain the money and luxury you have craved.”
“Abigail!” Her stepmother clasped her hands to her bosom. “How can you possibly say such things? Did I ask for the money you gave me? Have I not j
ust said that I will not ask for more? Am I the heartless one? I think your sudden good fortune has destroyed your ability to feel compassion. You used to be a kindhearted girl. I was always fond of you.”
“I shall speak with Miles,” Abigail said. “I am sure he will know what to do to ensure that Beatrice and Clara can grow up with a secure future. I will fight you for them, Rachel. But there will be no more money.”
“You have not told him about me?” Mrs. Harper smiled. “Why, Abigail? Were you ashamed of me and of your connection to me? I suppose you have good reason to be, haven't you? A bridegroom of one week might be somewhat shocked to learn such a thing about his wife's connections. Does he know about your papa?”
Abigail crossed the room to the door. She set her hand on the handle.
“It will not work, Rachel,” she said. “I am going to tell him everything. You will have no more power over me. And I don't believe you will find that the girls are a powerful weapon. You abandoned them six years ago, remember?” She turned the handle.
“Does your husband know about you?” Mrs. Harper said. Abigail froze. “About me?” she said. Her stepmother laughed. “It would make a quite delicious scandal, would it not?” she said. “Of course, I would imagine that you and I are the only two people in the world who know. And your secret can be safe with me, Abigail.”
“What secret?” Abigail had released the handle again. She felt as if she had walked into the middle of a nightmare.
Mrs. Harper laughed again. “Your father told me,” she said, “soon after we were married, when he was foxed one night and feeling sorry for himself. I really wondered what I had done, Abigail, marrying into such a family.”
“I don't know what you are talking about,” Abigail said, but the words sounded lame and foolish even to her ears. And there was a dull buzzing in those ears.
“The beau monde would be delighted with the story, I am sure,” Mrs. Harper said. “It would keep everyone abuzz for all of a week, I swear. And wouldn't your husband love to find himself at the center of it all!”
Abigail could think of nothing to say.
“Perhaps Severn has two thousand pounds to spare,” her stepmother said. “I am sure he would not miss such a trifling sum, and it would be money well spent, would it not, to preserve his good name and that of his new countess?”
Abigail turned to look at her.
“Or perhaps you are fond of him,” Mrs. Harper said. “Are you? I could scarcely blame you, I must admit. He could spend a night in my bedchamber anytime he chose. Yes, after a whole week I am sure you must be very fond of him. It would be a shame to lose his favor so soon, would it not? Two thousand pounds, Abigail, in order to keep his caresses for a little while longer? Is it too great a fortune?”
“You are an evil woman,” Abigail said. “And after the two thousand pounds are paid, how much will you ask for next?”
“Ah, Abigail,” the other said, “I am not greedy. Two thousand and there will be an end of the matter. I have not said anything all these years, have I? And I will not say anything in the future either.”
Abigail turned away again and opened the door.
“One week,” Mrs. Harper said. “If I have not had the pleasure of your company again in that time, Abigail, you may inform Severn, if you wish, that I shall be calling on him.” I
Abigail left without a word and without looking back.
14
“Well, Ger.” The Earl of Severn was grinning at his friend. “Is the red nose a product of your cold or of the punching you were just entertained to? I could not quite believe the evidence of my own eyes when I saw you sparring this morning.”
“If Dibbs would not prance around so much, just like a damned dancing master,” Sir Gerald Stapleton said, touching his nose gingerly, “one might be able to concentrate on discovering where the next fist is going to land. Deuced unsporting, I call it.”
The earl laughed. “You expect him to advertise his strategy?” he said. “Left hook to the jaw on the way? Watch for the right uppercut coming—now?”
“You choose to make fun of me,” his friend said as they left Jackson's together and turned in the direction of White's. “We are not all veritable Corinthians like you, Miles.”
Lord Severn looked up at the sky. “The sunshine is holding,” he said. “I was afraid that after yesterday's rain, today would not be suitable for Abby's picnic. But it should be perfect. You haven't forgotten about it, Ger?”
“No,” the other said. “How could I forget, with either you or your wife reminding me about it each day—just like a Greek chorus?”
The earl grinned at him. “Abby has been reminding you too?” he asked. “Have you seen her?”
“Yesterday,” Sir Gerald said. “She was walking in the park despite all the puddles and gloom.”
“Ah, yes,” the earl said. “She was with Lady Beauchamp.
They seem to have become fast friends. I can't say I'm sorry. I like the lady. She certainly seems to have tamed old Roger.”
“She was alone when I saw her,” Sir Gerald said. “Lady Severn, I mean. Had her head down and was wandering along as if her mind was a million miles away.”
“Ah,” Lord Severn said. “She was not feeling well last evening, though she insisted on going with me to Sefton's concert. She was out of sorts this morning too, though she swore she would be in the best of health and spirits for the picnic. She is planning a determined siege on your heart, Ger. I imagine Miss Seymour's auburn hair will show to advantage in the sunshine, don't you?”
But his bait was not taken, as he had expected it would be. His friend was walking at his side, a frown on his face, looking quite as far away as he had said Abigail was the day before.
“Look, Miles,” he said abruptly at last. “It's none of my business. You have told me that before, and I can see it for myself. I mink you are fond of her, and I have been determined to get to like her.”
“She cannot force you to the altar,” the earl said, slapping him on the back. “I won't let her, Ger. I shall help preserve your freedom with my life. Are you reassured?”
“Eh?” Sir Gerald looked at him blankly. “Oh, that. Listen, Miles, I don't know if I should tell you this or not. I might wreck your marriage if I do, or I might wreck it if I don't. And I have to tell you that I resent being put in this position. I didn't get a wink of sleep last night thinking about it. And there was no Priss to go to.”
Lord Severn stopped walking. He looked keenly at his friend. “What has happened?” he asked.
“I went walking with her,” Sir Gerald said. “It seemed the proper thing to do since for some reason she did not have even a maid with her. And it seemed the civil thing to do, my being your friend and all. And besides, I had decided that I must come to know her better and to like her. Lord.” He lifted his hat in order to run his fingers through his curls. “I don't know, Miles. Why are we standing here?”
“Because we are almost at White's,” the earl said, “and this sounds like private talk. We had better walk in a different direction, Ger. What happened? You did not try anything with her, did you?” His voice was tight and clipped.
“Eh?” Sir Gerald frowned at him. “You mean did I try to flirt with her? What do you take me for, Miles? She is your wife. Besides, I have Priss. No, actually I don't, do I? Devil take it, I could kill that swain of hers with my bare hands. He had better treat her right, that is all I can say. He had better not once—even once—throw in her face the fact that she was a whore. I'll kill him and carve him into little pieces.”
“Good Lord,” the earl said impatiently, “when are you going to admit that you are in love with the girl, Ger? But haven't you gone off the point?”
“Devil take it,” Sir Gerald said, striding along the pavement in the direction set by the earl, “Lady Severn prattled on for all the world as if someone had told her that she had to do all her talking in the next half-hour and remain silent forever after. And then she put me in the deuce of a di
lemma. I shouldn't have even started saying this to you.”
“But you did,” the earl said dryly. “You had better finish now.”
“Look,” Sir Gerald said, “I may be far wide of the mark, Miles. There may be a perfectly decent explanation. Perhaps she wants to buy you a special gift without your suspecting, in which case I am spoiling things for her. Or maybe you are close fisted with her and she wants something for herself. I don't know. I never thought of you as miserly, but one never knows what goes on between a man and his wife. You bought her all those clothes and jewels, of course.”
“Gerald.” The earl stopped walking again. “You are beginning to sound remarkably like Abby. Would you care to get to the point sometime this morning, since there is a picnic to attend this afternoon?”
“I think she must have lost a pile at Mrs. Harper's,” Sir Gerald said. “I think she must have, Miles, and is too afraid to come to you. She asked me if she could borrow fifteen hundred pounds. She told me she could not pay it back for a year but would pay me faithfully and in full one year from now. She asked me not to say anything to you. I don't know if she noticed that I avoided promising.”
“Fifteen hundred pounds.” Lord Severn stared at his friend without moving. “Just like that she asked for that much money? Did she give any reason?”
“I believe she gave about six,” Sir Gerald said, “but by that time her jabbering had become somewhat incomprehensible. There was even something about Christmas presents, if I am not mistaken. I'm not sure if she was referring to last Christmas or next. She has been gambling, Miles, take my word on it. And I don't say that out of spite. It is the only explanation that fits.”
“Or her brother has been gambling and losing,” the earl said. “To the tune of seven and a half thousand pounds—or more like seven, I suppose. She bought me that pin.”
Sir Gerald took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair again. “She has already had money from you?” he said. “Devil take it, Miles, why did I have to get caught in the middle of this? I feel like a villain telling you, but I can't stand by and let my friend's wife get in deep like this without trying to warn him. She needs taking in hand—and keep your fists at your sides, please. I am in earnest.”
