The Wrong Mr. Wright

by Patricia Bray

  If they were, indeed, to be married in truth, then Diana and Caroline would have to come to an understanding. Much as he would like to deny the connection, unless his stepmother chose to remarry, she would perforce be a part of his life. A distant part, to be certain, but nonetheless present.

  “Your father seemed quite contented in the card room,” Stephen said. “And your mother seems pleased with the festivities. If she has told me once how happy she is, she has told me a half dozen times.”

  “Mama is in high alt. Indeed, I quite think she has forgotten the bargain we made,” Miss Somerville said. There was a pause as she looked downward at her feet and bit her lower lip with her pearl white teeth. “Sometimes I find myself forgetting that this is not real,” she confessed.

  His heart quickened, and he squeezed her hand in his. This was the opportunity he had been seeking. “About that—” he began.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder, and he turned and then stopped still in frozen horror. Miss Somerville stepped on his foot and then clutched his arm to right herself at the sudden stop.

  A part of his mind noticed that around them heads were turning, and the other couples were gradually coming to a halt as the inanely cheerful music continued on. But the rest of his attention was fixed on the man who stood before him.

  “Dear brother, Miss Somerville,” George Wright said, with a mocking gleam in his eye. “Forgive my tardiness, but I had to come and offer my congratulations.”

  “George,” he said. And then his mind blanked, and he could think of nothing else to say. He was all too conscious of Miss Somerville, who was trembling with fury by his side, and the hundred pairs of eyes that were watching this family reunion with avid fascination. The last strains of the waltz faded away, ensuring that whatever they said would be overheard.

  “I am so pleased to see that you have tended to my affairs,” George said, his gaze insolently raking over Miss Somerville’s body. “Your brotherly concern overwhelms me.”

  Stephen stepped in front of Miss Somerville, blocking her from his brother’s gaze. He no longer cared that they had an audience. He would not permit anyone to insult his fiancée.

  “Stephen,” Diana said, resting her hand upon his forearm.

  A silver bell rang, and heads turned to the main doors, which had been thrown open.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in the supper room,” Lady Endicott said, and as she nodded, two footmen threw open the doors that connected the ballroom to the dining room.

  Even the hope of witnessing a scandal was not enough to distract the guests from the prospect of a lavish buffet, and couples began to stream through the double doors.

  “This is not over,” Stephen warned his half brother.

  “I did not think it was,” George replied. “Miss Somerville, I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.”

  Then, with one last mocking glance, George disappeared, leaving Stephen to escort a white-faced Miss Somerville into the supper room, where they attempted to appear as if nothing were at all amiss.

  Nine

  The sight of his brother provoked a murderous rage within Stephen. It took every ounce of his self-control not to give in to the urge to plant the facer that George so richly deserved. Instead, drawing upon acting skills honed over these past weeks, Stephen managed to greet his brother with at least the appearance of civility. The pretense may have fooled others, but he knew from his brother’s mocking gaze that George, at least, knew full well how much Stephen loathed him.

  Miss Somerville, for her part, managed to play her role to perfection, accepting George’s felicitations with good grace. And when the cur had the temerity to take a seat by them at the supper table, Diana even condescended to address a few questions to him, inquiring about his travels. Stephen could only imagine how much the effort cost her. Here she was, forced to make polite conversation with the man who had conspired to ruin her.

  He was heartily relieved when Tony and Elizabeth Dunne joined them at the small table, taking upon themselves the burden of the conversation. He counted himself blessed to have them as friends. But even as he pretended to eat the sawdust on the plate before him, he found himself battling his conflicting impulses as his anger warred with his intellect.

  He wanted to throw George out on the street. He wanted to take Diana from this place and keep her safe from all those who would harm her. And yet he could do no such thing. He knew that George’s sudden return was on everyone’s lips, and the three of them were the center of attention. The gossips would seize upon any sign of discord or public display of distress. It would take only a moment to destroy all the work they had done in these past weeks to restore Diana’s reputation.

  For himself he did not care. He was willing to tell the whole world to go hang, rather than to endure one more minute of his brother’s perfidy. But for Diana’s sake he gritted his teeth and behaved himself with the appearance of civility.

  It seemed an eternity before the supper was over and the guests began to take their leave. He was not surprised when Mr. Somerville was among the first to announce his intention to depart, claiming his daughter was fatigued from the excitement of the evening. It was only the simple truth, after all.

  Stephen escorted them to the door and stood with them as their carriage was summoned.

  “I am more sorry than I can say,” he told her, and as he said the words, he flashed back upon their first meeting. It seemed all he did was apologize to her for the hurt his brother had caused her. “I admire your courage. You did very well tonight,” he added.

  Diana squeezed his hand. “It is done now,” she said cryptically. Her gaze was focused straight ahead, and she would not meet his eyes.

  “I will see you tomorrow,” he said, loudly enough for her parents to overhear.

  “Diana will be quite busy tomorrow, entertaining callers come to pay their respects,” Mrs. Somerville said. She, at least, seemed oblivious to the tension that swirled around the others.

  Damn. He had forgotten about that. Custom dictated that those gentlemen who had danced with Diana tonight call upon her on the morrow, to express their appreciation. And, of course, there would no doubt be both well-wishers and curiosity seekers who wished to talk to her about the events of this evening.

  “I will see you in the morning, then,” he said. He had no mind to sit in a drawing room surrounded by other callers and make polite conversation. He had to see her. Alone.

  Just then he heard the sound of the church bells striking the hour of one.

  Diana turned to face him at last, a rueful smile on her lips. “It is already morning,” she said.

  “Then, I will see you later this morning,” he said.

  She nodded, and with that he had to be content.

  The hired carriage drew up in front of the steps, and the footman helped her parents ascend. Stephen helped Diana in himself, wrapping the carriage blanket tightly around her. He knew he must look like a besotted fool, but at the moment he did not care.

  “It will be all right,” Diana said gravely.

  Strange, that she should be reassuring him.

  “I will make it so,” he vowed.

  And then, reluctantly, he stepped back and watched as the footman closed the carriage door, and the coach drove off into the night.

  Returning indoors, he had cause to regret his stepmother’s lavish hospitality. Some of the guests were enjoying themselves too much to leave, despite the departure of the guests of honor. When subtle hints did not work, Stephen resorted to blunt statements that it was time to leave. When even that proved ineffective, Stephen ordered the footmen to begin dousing the lamps. At this, the last dozen or so hangers-on remaining finally departed, expressing their astonishment at the lateness of the hour.

  It was past three o’clock in the morning when the last inebriated guest was finally poured down the stairs and into a hackney coach. Stephen watched his departure with a frown, then went in search of his family.

  He fou
nd Caroline and her son, George, in the Chinese parlor. Caroline was reclining on a sofa while George lounged in a chair, a brandy bottle at his elbow.

  Stephen wasted no time. “I want you gone,” he said flatly.

  “But I have only just arrived,” George replied.

  “Then, you have no need to unpack your bags,” Stephen said. “I want you gone. From this house, from London, from England. I do not want to see your face until after my marriage, do you understand?”

  He did not know when he had decided that he was no longer playing the part of a fiancé and that he wanted Diana to be his wife. It had come on him gradually, seeping into his consciousness slowly over the course of these weeks. But he knew it now for the truth. He had known it even before George made his untimely appearance. But now, with George here, it made it all the more urgent that Stephen and Diana be wed. The sooner, the better.

  He wondered if he could convince her to have the first banns read this Sunday. They could be married in just three weeks if she agreed.

  “No,” George said.

  “Stephen, there is no need to bully poor George in this unseemly fashion,” Caroline said. “At least hear what he has to say.”

  Stephen sighed and then took a seat in a stiff-backed chair across from the other two.

  “I am listening.”

  “I know what I did was wrong. It was a foolish prank done in drunken folly,” George said. He gave a rueful smile, as if confessing to a small boy’s mischief. “It did not take me long to regret what I had done.”

  “So you left the country,” Stephen said.

  “My friends and I had long planned the journey. I went with them because I could not see what else to do. But as time passed, I came to realize the consequences of what I had done. I could not live with myself, so I came back to London to make my apologies,” George said. “Imagine my surprise when I arrived here to find a party in progress, and my shock when I learned the reason for the celebration.”

  It was a plausible tale, but Stephen had learned through bitter experience that he could not trust his brother’s words. George was equally comfortable bending the truth or lying outright. And he was at his most dangerous when he appeared to be sincere.

  “And you decided that having arrived, you had nothing better to do than to make a dramatic appearance? Why not stay out of sight until you could speak to me privately?”

  George shrugged. “I had no reason to keep my arrival secret. Several of your late-arriving guests were in the foyer when I made my entrance. Since they knew I was here, it seemed foolish to skulk in my room.”

  “And did you not once think of how I would feel? How Miss Somerville would feel, when confronted by you so unexpectedly? You could at least have sent a servant with a message, warning us.”

  “George does not think like you. He is not naturally cold and suspicious. He thought you would be pleased to see him,” Lady Endicott said, defending her son.

  Stephen raised his hands and slowly began to massage his temples. He could feel a monster headache forming, brought on by weariness and the strain of the evening. His earlier anger had been replaced by a dull fury and the certain knowledge that he could not give in to his cravings. One did not call out one’s own brother, no matter how reprehensible his conduct may have been.

  “So tell me, why are you really here?” he asked, more out of habit than out of any expectation of receiving the truth.

  “I came to make amends,” George said. “But I see you have already done that, and far surpassed any puny efforts I might make on my own behalf.”

  “Fine. So now you will leave.” Stephen did not really believe that George had returned to make his apologies. There was some other motive here. Something that in his anger and tiredness he was not seeing. Perhaps it was simply that George had become bored upon the Continent or that he had run short of funds and returned to his doting mama. But a part of Stephen discounted such easy explanations. There was more afoot here than met the eye.

  “It took me over a week to get here,” George said. “Now that I am back in London, I have a mind to stay and enjoy the remainder of the season. Surely you can have no reason to object.”

  “I have every reason to object. You have caused enough scandal for one season. I have no mind to bear witness to your next disaster, nor will I stand idly by while you hurt another innocent.”

  “I am a changed man,” George said, his face solemn. If one did not know him, one might suspect that he was actually contrite. But Stephen knew better.

  “Then, I will do as I must,” Stephen said, thinking aloud. “Stay in London, if you are determined to do so, but I can and will forbid you this house. You are not welcome here, not as long as I remain in residence.”

  “You cannot do this,” Lady Endicott protested. “This is my house, and I will have as I please under my roof.”

  Stephen rose. “We have already had this conversation, madame,” he said, a chill in his voice. “You may stay here as long as you abide by my rules. Or do you truly wish to remove yourself to the dower house at Eastbourne?”

  Caroline made no reply.

  “I thought as much,” he said. “Then, I suggest you bid good night to your son here. He is leaving.”

  “Stephen, be reasonable; it is nearly dawn. What would it hurt if he stayed here tonight?” Caroline said.

  George made no comment in his own defense, relying upon his mother to soften Stephen’s harsh judgment. It was a strategy that had worked in the past, but did so no longer.

  “Your concern for your son is touching, if misplaced. You should save your pity for those he has harmed. If I were you, I would do my best to rein him in. I warn you both, my patience is at an end. And you do not want to make me into an enemy.”

  As the carriage drew away from Grosvenor Square, Mrs. Somerville reached across the seats and patted her daughter on the hand. “You did very well tonight, Diana. No young lady there could hold a candle to you, in beauty or in grace. Even that old stickler Lady Wharton condescended to praise you, saying that you were born to be a viscountess.”

  Mrs. Somerville beamed at her daughter in a rare show of approval. It was a marked contrast from Diana’s first sojourn in London, when after each society affair her mother would gaze at her reproachfully and urge Diana to follow the example of the other young ladies of the ton. Diana had protested in vain that she had no wish to be thought a witless sheep, but her mother had persisted in her belief that for Diana to be truly happy she must conform to the role that society had assigned to her.

  And now, apparently, her earlier stubbornness was forgiven. Mrs. Somerville was basking in the glow of having successfully fired off her eldest daughter, securing a viscount, no less. Diana stared at her mother with incomprehension. How could her mother have forgotten so quickly that the engagement was a sham, meant to hide a scandal? She loved her mother, but she did not understand her. And she suspected that her mother felt the same mixture of affection and bafflement whenever she was confronted with her eldest daughter.

  “Awkward bit, there,” her father said. “Mr. Wright, returning as he did.”

  Awkward was such a tepid word. It had been a shock. An insult. A cruel blow to her composure.

  “It was a surprise,” Diana said, choosing her words with care. If he sensed her distress, her father would insist on talking about what had happened. And she was too tired, and her nerves too raw, for such a conversation. “I suppose it was inevitable that we would encounter one another at some point. At least now that unpleasantness is over with.”

  Her father looked at her searchingly, and then with a faint shrug of his shoulders, he seemed prepared to let the subject drop. For that mercy she was thankful.

  For the remainder of the drive she sat in silence, having only to murmur the occasional word of assent, as her mother continued to chatter on about the ball and Lady Endicott’s lavish hospitality.

  Mrs. Somerville seemed prepared to talk until the dawn, but as soon as they re
ached the town house, Diana made her escape, pleading fatigue, and retired to her chambers.

  She found her maid Jenna, dozing on a cot in the dressing room, and with her help removed the elaborate ball gown and then donned her cambric night rail. She dismissed her maid and crawled into bed, but she knew that she would not sleep.

  Her mind was racing in all directions, and her emotions were equally unsettled. She wished desperately for someone to talk to, someone who would understand her feelings. But the only one she could think of was Lord Endicott, and it would be hours before she would see him again.

  She knew she should be angry, even outraged that George Wright had dared to attend the ball. Even his mere presence in London would have been distasteful, but nothing could compare to his effrontery in appearing at a ball meant to celebrate her engagement to his brother. An engagement that would not have been necessary had George Wright behaved with even a shred of decency.

  A part of her felt anger, while another part wondered at the reasons for his return. Why had he come to London? And why had he chosen this night, of all nights, to make his appearance? Had it simply been ill luck?

  But mixed with her anger was another emotion. It took her a while to recognize it as disbelief. For nearly two months now she had cast George Wright in the role of a villain, one who had tried his best to ruin her. A man who had proven himself without honor or decency. A monster. And yet as her initial shock had worn off, her anger had turned to a kind of amazement. George Wright was a villainous cad, that was true. But now she saw what she had not seen before. George Wright was a callow young man, barely more than a boy for all his veneer of sophistication. The contrast between him and his brother could not have been greater.

  It was hard to believe that she had once thought George Wright charming. If she had met him tonight for the first time, she would not have given him a second glance.

  Then again, before now her standards of comparison had been rather limited. There had been few young gentlemen in her neighborhood at home, and none whom she would have called friend. Now, she was wiser. Her acquaintance with Lord Endicott had shown her the true measure of a gentleman, and George Wright fell far short of that standard.