She sighed. “As Great Aunt Tansy so wisely put it, ‘A true lady must always put duty before happiness’.”
Maeve felt as if a lead weight had just been attached to her heart. “Are you saying that you intend to marry the earl after all, in spite of how you feel about him?”
“I am. Great Aunt Tansy said anything else would be unladylike …and dishonorable as well.” Meg’s face was pale, but the determined tilt to her little pointed chin left no doubt in Maeve’s mind that her twin was determined to martyr herself in the name of duty.
Which was all very well. She had a sneaking suspicion Meg would thoroughly enjoy martyrdom.
But what of Theo? What possible happiness could he derive from marriage to a woman who cringed at the very thought of his touch? A woman who would never return his passion or understand the loneliness that lurked beneath his arrogant facade. A woman who wouldn’t care enough to applaud his triumphs—or laugh with him when he made a fool of himself.
Someone once said blood was thicker than water. But Maeve knew now that love was greater than both. Without a second’s hesitation, she decided what she must do.
When Richard joined them a short time later, she asked him for the loan of a pen and the use of a stick of sealing wax. Then extracting her letter to Theo from the pocket of her pelisse, she pried it open.
She had ended the enumeration of her many sins with a plea that he remember her sister was as much an innocent victim of the monstrous hoax as he. She couldn’t bring herself to speak ill of Meg or to warn him that if he married her for her dowry, he would be condemning himself to the same kind of loveless marriage his father had endured. After much deliberation, she added a postscript: On second thought, my lord, if you treasure your peace of mind, you would be wise to wash your hands of the entire Barrington clan. We are, all of us, trouble of the worst kind. Find yourself an heiress whose father is an honest merchant—not a devious country squire.
Theo had risen at dawn and spent the entire morning helping his farmhands fence the pasture for the cattle he’d ordered. Now, well past noon, he sat in a tub of hot water, soaking away the sweat and grime of his labor.
He felt both pleasantly tired and deeply satisfied with what he had accomplished in the past few hours. Unlike most men of his station, hard work agreed with him. But then, what other man of his station carried the blood of generations of Italian peasants in his veins?
Methodically, he lathered himself with the fragrant soap Albert Figgins had provided him and happily contemplated the afternoon ahead in Meg’s delightful company. He smiled to himself, every bit as satisfied with what he’d achieved last evening as with this morning’s work.
The serenade had been a stroke of genius. Meg was obviously a romantic, and what could be more romantic than the sensuous strains of a Spanish love song played beneath a lady’s balcony? At long last, she’d let down her guard and admitted how she felt about him.
I love you Theodore Hampton, Earl of Lynley, with all my heart and all my soul and shall until the day I die, she’d said in that husky little voice of hers, and made him vow that come what may, he would always believe they were words from her heart. As if he would ever doubt her when he’d had to work so hard to persuade her to say what so many other women had said so readily. He knew he was grinning from ear to ear just thinking about the silly little widgeon. He’d grinned so much all morning, the men had teased him about being in love—then teased him even more when he couldn’t deny it. For the truth was he had never felt more contented with his lot in life nor more hopeful for the future.
He had finished dressing and was tying his cravat when Stepford, the butler, knocked on his chamber door and announced the vicar was awaiting him in the small salon off the entryway. With a muttered expletive over Richard’s unfortunate timing, Theo put the finishing touches on the simple knot, gave the butler an order to have the tilbury brought round from the stable and strode down the stairs to see what Richard had in mind. Whatever it was, it had better be something that could be dispensed with quickly. He had taken longer than he’d planned with the fencing and his time with Meg would be cut short as it was.
Richard was standing by the window of the salon, the grim look on his face more befitting attendance at a funeral than a social call on the lord of the manor. Theo dismissed it as meaningless, reminding himself that while Richard was an altogether admirable fellow, he did tend to take life very seriously. He was in fact a dead bore, and had been since the day he accepted his position of vicar of the village church.
“What brings you to Ravenswood on this lovely spring afternoon?” Theo asked, determined to be cheerful in spite of the aura of doom and gloom surrounding his guest.
“I have a letter for you,” Richard said. “One I think you should read immediately.”
“A letter? From whom?”
“From the woman you call Meg Barrington.”
“Devil take it, Richard, I call her Meg because I’m of the opinion Margaret doesn’t suit her. I’m sorry if you disapprove, but she is my betrothed, after all.”
He fairly snatched the letter from the vicar’s hand, annoyed that the pawky fellow should poke his nose into something which was none of his business and even more annoyed that Meg should see fit to use him as her messenger. “I’m on my way to call on her now, as a matter of fact.”
Richard’s expression changed from grim to downright woeful. “All things considered, I strongly suggest you read the letter first.”
Theo stared at the sealing wax, which had obviously been broken, then re-applied, and his temper flared. “Are you saying you took it upon yourself to read a letter addressed to me?”
“Of course not. I would hope you know me better than that. But I am aware of its contents.” He squared his shoulders. “I won’t lie to you; it’s knowledge I’ve possessed for some time.”
“The devil you say!” Without further ado, Theo strode to a small Sheraton desk, broke the seal with a letter-opener and spread the pages of foolscap on the desk top. His first thought was that Meg’s handwriting was bold for that of a woman and beautifully legible.
“Dear Theo,” she began. “I offer no excuse for what I’ve done. For I have none except desperation, and considering the monstrous way in which I’ve deceived and betrayed you, that is sadly inadequate. To begin with, the woman with whom you have spent so much of your time during the past fortnight was not your betrothed, Meg Barrington, but her twin sister, Maeve.”
Theo was aware of his heart thudding dully in his chest and a chilling numbness settling over his senses as he assimilated the shock of her first words. He read on, and slowly the numbness gave way to white hot anger and humiliation. Like twin serpents, they coiled low in his gut as the full extent of her deceit became clear to him.
He read to the end—through that subtly insulting postscript, and a wave of pain, more intense than any he’d suffered from a Frenchman’s sword, washed over him. How, he wondered, could a man who had known as many women as he had have been so incredibly, stupidly gullible?
The answer to that question, when it came to him, was the most shocking thing of all. He had fallen head over ears in love for the first time in his life, and love had blinded him to the obvious truth he hadn’t wanted to know. For even the greenest gapeseed from the wilds of Yorkshire should have realized the witty, multi-talented charmer he’d found so fascinating couldn’t possibly be the simple country miss she and her wily father purported her to be.
He glanced up from his reading, suddenly aware that Richard still stood by the window watching him nervously. “How long have you known the woman I was courting was actually Meg Barrington’s twin sister, Maeve?”
“Since the night of your mother’s dinner. I knew she couldn’t be Margaret the minute she began playing the pianoforte. I taught Margaret everything she knew about music; she could play half a dozen simple country tunes—and she played them rather badly.”
Theo remembered that night well. He particularly rem
embered how deeply he’d been moved by her brilliantly sensitive rendition of the two compositions. He stood up and faced the perspiring vicar. “Yet, you, who profess to be my friend, let me go on making a bloody fool of myself,” he said bitterly.
The color leached from Richard’s face. “It wasn’t like that,” he protested. You see, Margaret had …and the squire had persuaded Maeve to…so you wouldn’t…” He extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his damp brow. “The way Maeve explained it, it seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
“Did it really?” Theo clasped his hands behind him to keep from planting Richard a facer. He knew if he allowed himself to hit the little traitor once, he’d hit him again and again. His innate sense of sportsmanship forbade him to do so, since the fellow was a head shorter than he and weighed a good three stone less.
Furthermore, he could scarcely fault a simple country vicar for being taken in by the clever minx when he, himself, had accepted her monstrous lies without question.
Still, the temptation was too great, his rage too overpowering. He had to quit the scene before the very sight of Richard’s face drove him to do something he would bitterly regret. “I’ll deal with you later,” he said. Then angrily, he wadded up the letter, tossed it in the trash basket standing beside the desk and headed for the door.
“Where are you going? What are you going to do?”
Richard sounded terrified. As well he should, Theo thought with a certain amount of vindictive satisfaction.
“Where the devil do you think I’m going,” he growled, ignoring Richard’s inane sputterings about its being too late.
“And as for what I’m going to do,” he added as he strode toward the waiting tilbury, “I threatened to wring that conniving little vamp’s neck once before. This time I just may do it.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Where is she?” Theo pushed past the slovenly housekeeper who’d answered his knock at the door of Barrington Hall.
“Where’s who, milord?” the old harridan asked with undisguised insolence.
“Miss Barrington—Meg—Maeve—whatever the witch is calling herself today.”
“In there.” The housekeeper wiped her hands on her apron and pointed a plump, flour-speckled finger toward the open doorway to the left of the entry.
Without another word, Theo strode down the hall and into the salon she’d indicated. The object of his search was sitting on a stool before a tambour frame, embroidering what appeared to be an altar cloth.
Puzzled, he stared at the still figure. She looked like the woman he sought. Her face was the one that had haunted his every dream since the night of his betrothal ball, her hair was the same fly-away, sable brown, even her gown was one he remembered seeing her wear before. Still, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, there was something different about her. The set of her shoulders perhaps? The tilt of her head?
He took a step forward. Instantly, she dropped her embroidery needle and stared up at him with pale, gray-green eyes blank with terror. He stopped dead in his tracks. The woman he’d courted so ardently had had vivid, emerald eyes that sparked with wit and humor—not these colorless orbs devoid of all expression. This must be the mousy creature he’d encountered on his first visit to Barrington Hall.
“Where is your sister?” he asked in his haughtiest tone of voice.
“M-M-Maeve is gone,” she stammered through chattering teeth.”
“Gone?” His pulse quickened alarmingly. “Gone where?”
Her cheeks paled to chalky white. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
With monumental effort, Theo managed to keep from driving his fist through the nearest wall. Could no one in this godforsaken pile of stone give a direct answer to a direct question?
“Where has your sister gone?” he repeated slowly and distinctly. “And for God’s sake, woman, stop cowering. I have never yet struck a woman; I’m not about to begin with you.”
“M-M-Maeve has gone b-b-back to London.” She gulped a breath of air and met his gaze. “And there’s no use your asking her direction, for I don’t know it. Nor does my father. She seemed disinclined to give it.”
The anger that had simmered inside Theo on his hell-for-leather ride from Ravenswood accelerated into a full-blown rage that sent his blood boiling through his veins. “All things considered, I can well imagine she was so disinclined,” he said grimly. “The trollop’s no fool.”
The mouse’s eyes grew round as tea cups. “M-M-My sister is not a trollop, my lord. Nor has she done anything to earn your disgust. She merely stood in for me while I visited my great aunt in Scotland.”
“And a magnificent performance she gave, too, for a mere standin. She should seriously consider joining the company of actors at Drury Lane.” Theo found himself wondering what this timid little prude would think about her sainted sister if she knew about the passionate kisses he’d shared with the heartless little flirt.
“I can understand your anger at being deceived, my lord. But must you be so insulting?”
“Yes, Miss Barrington, I find I must. For above all things, I despise a coward—and you and your sister have both proven to be craven to the bone. First you fled to Scotland to escape the ‘monster’ to whom your father had betrothed you. Now she flees to London to escape the consequences of her ill-conceived deceit. It appears cowardice is a trait common to those bearing the name of Barrington.”
“Once again you accuse my sister unjustly.” Meg Barrington raised her little pointed chin in the gesture of defiance Theo had found so endearing in her twin, and a knife-sharp pain twisted deep in his heart.
“I freely admit to being the worst kind of coward, my lord, but Maeve is nothing of the sort,” she said in a surprisingly steady voice. “She is the bravest, most independent woman I have ever known.”
“That may be.” Theo said, remembering he had once judged her the same. “But your sister is also an unconscionable liar and a conniving shrew. I am at a loss to determine which member of your ill-begotten family I find the most reprehensible. Thank God I learned the truth before I made the mistake of allying myself with such a collection of sneaks and prevaricators.”
The mouse clutched her tambour frame to her as if it were a protective shield. “Are you s-s-saying you’re planning to break our engagement, my lord?”
“Need you ask, madam?” Theo glared at his timid interrogator. “What man in his right mind would not, once he’d learned the extent to which he’d been deceived?”
“I feel I must warn you that Papa will be most unhappy. He has his heart set on this alliance.” She blushed furiously. “He desperately needs a grandchild, you see.”
“The Squire, and his nefarious schemes be damned. I’ll have no part of them. Nor will I make one of his despicable daughters the mother of my children.”
“Ah, but ye will, me fine, fancy lord. For I’ve a marriage contract signed and sealed as says so, and I mean to hold ye to it—at least until I’ve the grandchild I need as heir to me fortune and estate.”
Theo wheeled around to find the squire teetering in the doorway like a drunken windmill. His face was mottled from drink, his jacket and breeches a mass of wrinkles, his hair sprigged with wisps of straw—and a blob of something that looked as if it belonged in a chamber pot decorated the toe of his right boot.
The pungent smell of dog and sweat and second-hand brandy radiating from the old man made Theo’s eyes water and his stomach churn ominously. But even more disquieting was the squire’s contention that despite all that had happened, nothing had changed concerning the marriage contract.
Ignoring the sickening stench as best he could, he faced his disgusting would-be father-in-law. “Under the circumstances, sir, I feel justified in withdrawing my offer of marriage to your daughter,” he said tightly.
“Do you now?” The squire regarded him through bloodshot eyes. “Well, milord, I gives ye fair warning. I intends to hold ye to it, if I have to take ye before
a magistrate to do so.”
“There’s not a magistrate in the county who would hold me to such an arrangement once I recounted the deceit I’ve endured at the hands of you and your madcap daughters.”
“I begs to differ with ye, milord. I rides to the hounds with every one of them, and a more practical lot ye’ll never meet. I think they’ll find it downright shameful that ye’re trying to weasel out of our ‘arrangement’ when ye’ve already dipped deep into me daughter’s handsome dowry.”
Theo felt an icy chill travel his spine, remembering the substantial sums his man-of-affairs had withdrawn to set up both Doddsworth’s and the Dowager’s retirement funds—and the even more substantial draft he had promised the farmer delivering the cattle in the next day or two.
Dear God, he was trapped, and in the final analysis, he was as much to blame as those who’d set the trap for him. For once he’d authorized the spending of the dowry monies, he’d effectively locked the door of his own prison.
It had seemed of little consequence at the time because he’d believed the woman to whom that dowry belonged was everything he could want in his wife and the mother of his children. He should have known better than to believe in miracles. Now he must spend the rest of his life paying for that moment of stupidity.
He gripped the back of a nearby chair to steady himself as a wave of bitterness and despair swept over him. He’d spent a lifetime hiding his feelings from those around him; he was not about to give this evil old man the satisfaction of seeing the anguish he felt over the collapse of his dream.
But how could he bear to spend a lifetime with this pale facsimile of the intriguing woman who had stolen his heart? Every time he looked at her, he’d be reminded of the clever little green-eyed cat and her cruel deception.
“Very well, sir, I will honor the bargain I made, no matter how onerous it might be,” he declared while he could still make himself do so. “A gentleman could do no less.”
The Madcap Masquerade Page 21
