At Last Comes Love

by Mary Balogh

  He did actually. This was a very public place. And he was escorting the lady he hoped to marry, the lady who could rescue him from penury and the inability to give Toby the country home he had promised him after Laura’s death. He was in company with dozens of people who thought the very worst of him and would spare him no sympathy whatsoever in any confrontation with Laura’s husband—or with Caroline Pennethorne.

  It really was not a pleasant thing to be hated. One might be blasé about it on the outside, but inside …

  Yes, he wished to leave. But there were certain moments in life that forever defined one as a person—in one’s own estimation, anyway. And one’s own self-esteem, when all was said and done, was of far more importance than the fickle esteem of one’s peers. He would not turn away from this particular moment any more than he had turned away from the painful decision he had made five years ago.

  Not, at least, unless Miss Huxtable wished to leave. His primary responsibility at the moment was to her.

  But she had asked him a question.

  “No,” he replied. “But I will certainly escort you home if you wish to go.”

  “There is no need for you to put yourself out,” Merton said curtly. “It will give me the greatest pleasure to remove my sister from harm’s way and myself from a potentially ugly scene. If I were you, Meg, I would say a permanent good-bye to the Earl of Sheringford.”

  Her eyes had not left Duncan’s.

  “Thank you both,” she said, “but I intend to stay. It would be ill-mannered to leave so early.”

  “Allow me at least, then,” her brother said with a sigh, “to escort you back to the drawing room, Meg. There are—”

  She turned her head to look at him at last.

  “Stephen,” she said, her voice soft and warm, “thank you. But I have my own life to lead, you know, and I am quite capable of doing it without assistance. Go and enjoy yourself. Miss Weeding has been looking quite forlorn since you abandoned her.”

  “Meg,” he said softly and pleadingly. He glanced at Duncan and turned back to join the young lady, who had relinquished her seat at the pianoforte to someone else with a far more heavy hand.

  “Miss Huxtable,” Duncan said, “you have been placed in an awkward position, to say the least. I really ought to insist upon escorting you home.”

  “I put myself in an awkward position,” she said, “when I lied to Crispin at Lady Tindell’s ball. I compounded it when I received you at home the day before yesterday—oh goodness, was it really so recent?—and commanded you to woo me. You have done nothing yet to convince me that I ought to marry you—and nothing to convince me that I ought not. If I run now, I will forever wonder if I might have married you and achieved something like happiness with you. I am going to stay. It is beyond your power to insist upon taking me home.”

  … something like happiness …

  He stared grimly at her. Was happiness—or even something like happiness—a possibility if he married? All he wanted—all he had wanted for years, in fact—was peace. And his own familiar home. And a secure, happy environment for Toby to grow up in. The presence of a wife at Woodbine would be a severe complication. But without a wife there would be no home at all either for himself or for the child—the one person in life whom he loved totally and unconditionally.

  Margaret Huxtable was a brave woman. Perhaps a formidable woman, as he had suspected before tonight. She was prepared to stay and face whatever might happen. Randolph Turner was here. So was Caroline.

  “You did not discover last evening,” he asked her, “that Major Dew can make you happier than I?”

  Her lips tightened. He ought not to have asked. She might think he was jealous. But though he did not like Dew, he did suspect that she still harbored tender feelings for the man. He certainly did not want her married to him and pining for another man for the rest of her life.

  “I am not making a choice between the two of you,” she said. “This is not a competition, my lord. Crispin Dew offered me marriage again last evening, and again I said no. I have not said no to you—yet. When I know the answer to be no, I will say it. And if I ever know the answer to be yes, I will say that too.”

  He half smiled at her.

  “Shall we move into the next room, then?” he suggested. “My uncle has an impressive collection of old maps, which he has always kept in the library, though I doubt they are on display tonight.”

  “Let us go and see,” she said, and she gripped his arm a little more tightly and smiled.

  12

  THE sudden hush in the crowded library, followed by a renewed rush of conversation, informed Duncan that at least one of the three people he least wished to meet must be in this very room. He looked unhurriedly about him. And sure enough, there was Caroline seated on the padded window seat, Norman standing beside her.

  Duncan inclined his head affably in their direction. Miss Huxtable was greeting Con, who was with a redheaded beauty.

  “Margaret? Sherry?” Con said with an unnecessary degree of heartiness. “Have you met Mrs. Hunter? Do come into the music room with us and add your voices to mine. I am attempting to persuade her to sing for the company. Miss Huxtable and the Earl of Sheringford, Ingrid.”

  “I remember you as having a lovely contralto voice, Mrs. Hunter,” Miss Huxtable said. “I do hope you will agree to sing. However, Lord Sheringford and I have just come from half an hour spent in the music room. We are on our way to find refreshments.”

  Mrs. Hunter was looking at Duncan with pursed lips and eyes that were somewhat amused.

  “I remember you from long ago, Lord Sheringford,” she said. “All the young girls making their debuts with me—including myself, I must confess—were ready to swoon at a single glance from you. Alas, you did not know we existed.”

  She spoke with a low, musical voice.

  “I daresay,” he said, “I was more foolish in those days than I am now, Mrs. Hunter. Mr. Hunter was obviously far wiser.”

  “Poor Oliver,” she said. “He survived our nuptials by less than a year, though I hasten to add that there was no connection between the two events. Shall we continue on our way into the music room, Constantine?”

  Con hesitated and gave his cousin a hard, meaningful look, but he offered his arm to the widow, and the two of them proceeded on their way.

  Norman was making his way toward them with purposeful strides. Duncan had been right in the impression he had had of him the night before last. He had not changed, except in girth and the amount of hair that remained on his head. There was nothing new about the height of his shirt points or the look of pomposity he wore. He was also looking righteously outraged.

  And at some time during the past five years he had acquired a second chin.

  “Sheringford,” he said when he was close enough to make himself heard, and though there was no noticeable abatement in the volume of conversation in the library, Duncan would be willing to bet a fortune, if he had one to bet, that everyone in the room would be able to report the conversation verbatim tomorrow morning to anyone unfortunate enough not to be here in person.

  “Norm,” Duncan said pleasantly. “May I have the pleasure of presenting Miss Huxtable? Norman Pennethorne, my love. My cousin—on my father’s side, as his name would imply. Second cousin, to be precise.”

  Norman nodded curtly to Miss Huxtable.

  “I understand, ma’am,” he said, “that my dear wife called upon you two mornings ago, though I did not know of her plan until after it had been executed and would have forbidden it if I had known. But I must applaud her courage in doing something so distressing to her entirely out of a concern for your happiness and good name. I see, alas, that her effort was in vain. You have ignored her warning.”

  Duncan would have spoken, but Miss Huxtable spoke first.

  “Indeed I have not, Mr. Pennethorne,” she said. “I was honored by your wife’s call and listened very carefully to what she had to say. But there are two sides to most stories, yo
u see, and it would have been quite unfair of me to listen only to hers in this particular case and not also to Lord Sheringford’s, especially when he has done me the honor of offering me marriage.”

  She spoke quietly. Even so, Duncan did not doubt there were those who heard every word—or their own version of every word, anyway.

  “And you have accepted the offer?” Norman said sharply.

  “If I have,” she said, “or if I do at some time in the future, you will be able to read the announcement in the morning papers the following day, sir.”

  Caroline, Duncan noticed, had remained where she was. She looked pale and interesting and had attracted a small cluster of ladies, who were patting her back and her knees and waving handkerchiefs and vials of hartshorn in the vicinity of her nose.

  Norman turned his attention away from Miss Huxtable, his chest swelling visibly as he did so.

  “And you, Sheringford,” he said, “have not improved with time. You are as contemptuous of the proprieties as you ever were. You do not even have the decency to keep far away from my dear wife and my brother-in-law. You do not have the decency to keep far away from entertainments such as this, where decent folk have the expectation of being kept safe from scoundrels. I would wager Mrs. Henry did not invite you here this evening.”

  Unlike Miss Huxtable, Norman was making no attempt to pitch his voice below the general level of conversation. He spoke as if he were addressing one of the chambers in the Houses of Parliament, with clear enunciation and eloquent passion.

  “It has been a pleasure to see you again too, Norm,” Duncan said amiably. “Now, if you will excuse us, we will continue on our way to the dining room. Miss Huxtable is in need of refreshments.”

  By a process of elimination, he thought, Turner must be in the dining room. But he would not turn back now and have the morning papers expose him as a coward.

  “I must demand,” Norman said, “that you leave a home that also shelters my wife.”

  Oh, good Lord, the man really ought to be on the stage.

  “I shall be happy to leave the house, Norm,” Duncan said, “when Miss Huxtable informs me that she is ready to return home. Or when my aunt asks me to leave.”

  He looked down at Miss Huxtable and wished he had insisted that she go home earlier. It was unfair to embroil her in this nastiness. The gossip of the last few days would surely be nothing compared to tomorrow’s. And here she was, trapped in the middle of it.

  Except that, as she had informed him a few minutes ago, he did not have the power to compel her to do anything she did not wish to do.

  “If you are attempting to attract attention and embarrass your wife, sir,” she said quietly to Norman, “you are succeeding admirably. You will excuse us, if you please.”

  And she linked her arm through Duncan’s again and drew him in the direction of the dining room—at the exact moment when Randolph Turner, a young lady on each arm, was exiting it.

  It was an exquisitely timed moment, Duncan was forced to admit. Excellent theater. Very few people in the library even pretended any longer not to be eavesdropping.

  “Turner,” Duncan said, and inclined his head.

  Turner stopped walking abruptly and blanched.

  He looked like the quintessential romantic hero, Duncan thought, looking critically at him while he awaited some reply to his slight greeting. He was tall and well formed, with smooth blond hair, pale blue eyes, a finely chiseled nose, and a sensitive mouth. They had made an extraordinarily handsome couple, he and Laura, who had shared his coloring.

  Norman did not wait for his brother-in-law to reply. Instead, he came striding up to stand between Turner and Duncan.

  “Randolph,” he said, “I tried to persuade Sheringford to leave quietly before you were forced to come face-to-face with him. I understand how unspeakably painful this encounter must be to you—and in such a public place too. But he has refused to leave, and so on his own head must be the consequences. There are numerous witnesses, all of whom no doubt share your outrage and mine. No one will blame you for speaking your mind here and now and demanding satisfaction. All will attest to the fact that you were given no alternative.”

  Duncan regarded Turner with raised eyebrows. The man’s already pasty complexion acquired the color and consistency of chalk. He stared back at Duncan, his jaw set hard, his eyes inscrutable.

  What did one say to the man one had allowed to run off with one’s wife without making any attempt to pursue him and run him to earth and throttle the life out of him on the one hand, or to spurn and divorce the faithless wife on the other?

  What did one say to the man one must suspect knew all one’s deepest, darkest, nastiest secrets?

  “I loved my wife,” Turner said, “more than life itself.”

  The two young ladies drew closer to his sides. One of them gazed worshipfully up at him. The other twined both arms about his.

  Duncan nodded.

  “Yes, she told me all about that,” he said.

  “You had no right,” Turner said, “to interfere between a man and his lawful wife.”

  Duncan did not turn his head to look, but he would wager a sizable amount that more than one lace-edged handkerchief was being raised to more than one feminine eye in the room behind him.

  “No lawful right at all,” Duncan agreed.

  “Randolph,” Norman said sternly.

  Turner glanced at him uneasily and licked his lips.

  “You will wish to demand satisfaction from the scoundrel,” Norman said.

  There was a collective feminine gasp from the room.

  Miss Huxtable’s hand tightened on Duncan’s arm.

  “A duel?” Duncan said. “Have duels been made legal since I was last in London, then, Norm? That is an interesting development. Do you wish to challenge me, Turner? With so many witnesses? Even ladies?”

  “I—” Turner began.

  “Of course you do, Randolph,” Norman said briskly and firmly. “I will be your second. There is surely not a person here present who would not applaud you for taking such a firm stand with the villain who exposed your sister to public humiliation and destroyed your happy marriage.”

  Someone really ought to find Norman a seat in the House of Commons if he did not wish to be an actor. He would sweep all before him with his oratory.

  “There is at least one person present who would certainly not applaud such a childish way of settling an old quarrel,” Miss Huxtable said. “What on earth will be settled if one of you blows out the brains of the other? I would suggest a rational discussion of your differences—in private.”

  The pervading silence suggested that hers was a minority view It was not an entirely unilateral one, though.

  “Miss Huxtable,” Turner said, fixing his eyes on her. “I presume that is who you are, ma’am, though I regret never having been introduced to you. You are quite right. Mrs. Henry’s home is not the place for such a distasteful confrontation. And it has never been my belief that violence settles anything. Besides—forgive me, ma’am—I do not believe the Earl of Sheringford worthy of the honor of a duel. He has chosen his path to hell and will be allowed to tread it to the end as far as I am concerned. I feel no compulsion to speed him on his way.”

  Now both young ladies were gazing worshipfully at him. Someone in the library stifled a sob. Someone else sniffed quite audibly.

  Duncan smiled, his eyes fixed on Turner’s. “It has never been your belief that violence settles anything,” he said softly. “One can only admire and respect such pacifist views. If you should change your mind, you know where to find me, I do not doubt, though I must caution you that Sir Graham Carling may not be overly delighted to have his home invaded by two belligerent gentlemen—an aggrieved husband and a man who is his relative, though not his brother.”

  Turner’s eyes bored back into his own.

  Yes, of course I know, Duncan told him silently. Did you comfort yourself for one moment in the last five years with the possibili
ty that I did not?

  “Randolph,” Norman said sharply, “think of your poor late wife if you will. Think of your sister.”

  Duncan looked down at Margaret Huxtable.

  “Shall we go in pursuit of that lemonade?” he suggested.

  “A drink would be very welcome indeed,” she said, and they proceeded into the dining room after Turner and his entourage had stepped smartly out of the way.

  It was clear that the occupants of the dining room had been following the encounter as avidly as those in the library. There was a loud silence as everyone gawked at them, and then everyone turned away and rushed back into merry conversation with one another.

  “Well,” Duncan said, “I hope you are enjoying your public wooing, Miss Huxtable.”

  “If a duel is ever fought,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion, “and if one drop of blood is shed on either side, I shall personally kill you.”

  “That,” he said, “is mildly illogical, is it not? But I did not realize you cared so deeply.”

  She looked into his eyes and kept her voice low, though it still throbbed with feeling.

  “That poor man,” she said. “Tomorrow, Lord Sheringford, you must call upon him—if he will receive you—and apologize. Most humbly and most sincerely. You wronged him, and while you cannot change the past or expect forgiveness for it, you can at least acknowledge that what you did was very wrong, that the suffering you caused was inexcusable. You will apologize, Lord Sheringford.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Or else?”

  “Oh,” she said, “do there have to be ultimatums before you will do what is right? You must apologize.”

  “You advocate lies, Maggie?” he asked her.

  “Lies?” She frowned. “No, I do not, though I have told some of my own in the past few days—none of which has done me a great deal of good.”

  “And yet,” he said, “you would have me lie?”

  She continued to frown.

  “I am not sorry,” he said. “If I apologize, I will be lying.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment and her shoulders slumped.