by Sophia Nash
“I beg your pardon, madam,” Quinn said stiffly. “Would you care to reconsider and rephrase your words more carefully? I’m certain the marchioness”—he glanced at Georgiana—“who has always been extraordinarily forgiving, will consider favorably your apology.” Quinn grasped his relative’s arm. “And then we’ll retire to my study.”
The older lady dug in her heels and refused to budge. “I absolutely will not apologize to that scheming girl. She must have some sort of mysterious pull on your sex—women like her often do. Although what her allure is, I’ve never understood. She has had the audacity to insinuate herself here and—”
He hated to make a scene. Hated scandal. He’d had enough scandal with Cynthia to last him all his days. “Madam,” he interrupted her loudly, and then dropped his voice, the ironlike force tightening around each syllable. “You have apparently forgotten who is the head of this family—perhaps from the fatigue of your long journey.” He heard her shocked intake of breath. “Now, if you would kindly repair to the house immediately, I shall be delighted to continue this discussion in my study—after Lady Ellesmere and I light the bonfire.” He strengthened his grasp on Gwendolyn’s arm to encourage her retreat.
“Impossible! Georgiana Wilde was never legally married to my Anthony,” the grand dame nearly shouted in her vexation. “And I have the proof of it right here. Mr. Tilden, finally proving of some use, made an inspired discovery—after you agreed to continue the inquiry.”
“I never agreed to—”
“I always said you were bright. I told my husband you were. And Henrietta always thought you showed poten—” She finally stopped.
With each word the crowd had eased closer, silently, suffocating them. Quinn noticed Grace had drifted to Georgiana’s side and was gripping her waist with one hand and her fingers with the other. Georgiana appeared rooted to the spot, like a fawn caught in the mesmerizing glow of a fire at nightfall.
And he felt equally caught in this god-awful nightmare. He moved to within inches of his aunt’s face and stared at her, daring her to utter another word. He leaned down slowly and whispered, “I shall cut your annual portion in half if you utter one more wretched word. I told you I would hear you out—if only because Tilden is involved—but not now, not here. You shall turn around and repair to the house—to my study, to be precise—or go back to London. But there is one thing you will not do, and that is to remain here for one more bloody moment.”
His aunt opened her mouth and then closed it quickly. Money always had been her soft, fleshy vulnerability. He resisted the urge to begin counting.
The dowager backed away slowly, absolute fury building on her sallow, aged face.
Quinn moved to Georgiana’s side to say quietly, “I realize ordering you to do something is tantamount to ensuring a refusal. So I’m begging you to take this torch and light the bonfire. If you do not, in the eyes of every person here, she will be proved right and you wrong.”
“How does she know?” She asked the question so hollowly he barely heard her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why did you continue the inquiry? I thought you said you weren’t going to. You said—”
“I said I would end it. Now please, please take this torch. If not for me, then for Anthony.” His stomach clenched in pain, but he forced himself to continue. “He would have wanted you to.”
He noticed the growing buzz of conversation all around him. Snatches of phrases reached his ears.
“Maybe she shouldn’t light it”…“Bad luck”…“Wouldn’t take the chance”…“It’s our livelihoods”…
“Well, that was a bloody poor display of your infamous diplomatic skills, old boy,” Luc St. Aubyn said, leaning in closer from the skirts of the crowd. “But then I expected no less of you after last night’s farce, for which you will never be forgiven no matter how prettily you ask.”
“You’re such a comfort, Helston. I don’t know how I managed without you before.”
Quinn turned to the crowd. “Your attention, please, everyone. I fear the dowager marchioness has been ill advised and is under a great misapprehension. I ask you all to have patience while this misunderstanding is sorted out. And…” Quinn paused when he felt sticky little fingers worm their way into his tight fist, and he glanced down, surprised to encounter the questioning expression of his daughter. An idea captured his mind. “…And I’ve a new tradition to begin today. I’ve long thought the harvest gods have been having their way with us—actually laughing at us mere mortals below—while an ancient stream of Ellesmere lords and ladies lit the bonfires through the generations. Yet, in all the tales I’ve read, the gods have always preferred the offerings of innocent young girls.”
He heard Fairleigh giggle beside him. He looked down at her and stroked her soft, blonde curls, so unlike her mother’s auburn hair.
“You’re not going to sacrifice me in the fire are you, Papa?”
Bellows of laughter resonated in the late-afternoon light.
“I won’t if you promise not to eat any more sweets tonight.”
“Oh, Papa, I think I can promise to never eat another sweet my entire life.”
He handed Fairleigh the torch and directed her toward the pyre. “Careful, my darling,” he whispered in her ear. “There now, light the nearest branch.”
Firelight danced along a thin, dry reed, feasting on the material before racing to the branches above. Within a few moments a shower of sparks erupted, licking the larger timber.
Quinn glanced at all the hundreds of people surrounding the blaze. Firelight glowed on the awed faces of humanity. Quinn’s cursed cynical outlook on life—something he tried to keep in check always—enveloped him. It served them all right, these lemmings, willing to believe an old harridan’s rantings against one of their own. Georgiana was worth more than the lot of them any day of the week.
As he gazed down at Georgiana, who was instructing Fairleigh to toss in the torch, he wondered what all these ridiculous, superstitious folk would think if they discovered there was not a drop of his blood in his daughter’s veins.
Not one drop.
He ruthlessly pushed back the thought—surprised he had dared to examine something he had buried so long ago. She was his daughter and he would kill anyone who dared to say a word otherwise. It was the very reason he had accepted the post so far away from London, away from the past—away from the extraordinary, ugly truths he’d been forced to face in his marriage.
“Fairleigh,” he said, kneeling down to his beautiful child, “I want you to stay with Mrs. Winters and Mrs. Ashburton, here.” He nodded to the two widows, who bobbed their acquiescence to his request.
He looked at Georgiana, who had drawn a shroud over her usually open expression. “I won’t allow her to insult you.”
Before she could reply, the tiny, wizened form of Ata appeared beside Georgiana. “Well, I won’t let her face that woman without me.”
“Nor without me,” Grace said softly.
“This is ridiculous,” Georgiana said.
“Luc?” Ata poked her grandson.
“Bloody hell. This is Ellesmere’s problem, not mine. The man is nothing but problems, if you ask me.”
Ata stamped her cane on his foot.
Quinn was amused to note how well Helston hid his discomfort.
“Delighted to help, Grandmamma. Always enjoy a good debate. And Lady Gwendolyn should provide much entertainment, if recent history is any indication.”
Quinn wasn’t sure why he allowed the large group to accompany him and Georgiana. He typically preferred to sort out problems by himself. A prickle of uncertainty had pounded in his chest at the idea, and he held back a demand not to intercede.
It was quiet as the group walked toward the house in the lengthening shadows of twilight. Only the en-onk, en-onk of a V of geese above drew their attention. They appeared like skeins of brown and black wool unraveling across the rose-tinted sky. A drift of sapphire dragonflies skimmed along in th
e air currents in front of them, searching, always searching for less-fortunate creatures to capture.
Lady Gwendolyn sat beside the fire in the study, directing two footmen to use bellows on the blaze, as she was chilled.
“I suppose you’ve brought in your friends to argue against me.” His aunt sniffed. She extracted a sheaf of papers from an old leather portfolio next to her. “But I’m actually grateful for the audience, for the sooner everyone knows the truth, the better.
“Georgiana Wilde left this parish for ten days to attend a fair during the critical period before the purported wedding ceremony.” She shifted in her seat. “If one takes the time to carefully read the rules governing a Common License—”
Quinn interrupted. “Anthony and Georgiana were married by Special License, which would render your argument useless.”
“No,” Georgiana said quietly, all eyes on her. “We were married by Common License.”
“As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted,” Lady Ellesmere continued, “Lord Hardwicke’s Act requires that at least one of the parties ‘live’ in the parish for at least four weeks immediately before the granting of the license. There is to be not one single interruption of residency. Mr. Wilde and his daughter attended an agricultural”—she said the word with great disdain—“fair in Devon.” She turned to Georgiana and tilted her nose in an arrogant manner. “Did you, or did you not attend this event for six days during the month prior to securing the license and the purported union? And remember, missy, that I have witnesses to the fact that you were there.” She paused and hissed, “You were looking over the pigs, I understand.”
Quinn felt the chill of fear rise along his spine. He couldn’t move and he damned the feeling of inadequacy that was forever to torment his soul at the most important moments. “Georgiana, you are not to answer,” he said.
“Why ever not?” she replied. “I have nothing to hide. Nothing to fear.”
Ata clasped her hand with her good one, gaining her attention. “Everyone has something to hide, my dear. You wouldn’t be interesting unless you had something to hide.”
That broke the tension for a moment.
“And your son?” Luc said slowly. “Was he not here during those four weeks? That would have satisfied the—”
“My Anthony went up to London during the same period the two Wildes were in Devon.” She handed the thick sheaf of legal documents to Quinn with a flourish.
He quickly scanned a few of the pages until his eyes came to rest on a paragraph. “It does say in Canon One hundred two that one of the parties must live in the diocese for four weeks prior. But really, madam, the word ‘live’ is open to interpretation, as I see it. One could easily argue that to live in a parish means to reside, or to maintain lodging, not necessarily to be present there for every moment of the four weeks.”
The old lady tilted her head in an odd angle. “That’s not how the Archbishop of Canterbury’s assistant, Lord Thornley, saw it when he condescended to grant me an audience last Thursday. Perhaps you would like to discuss it with him.”
An awful silence wended around the occupants of the room before Georgiana broke it. “How many times must I say it? I’ve never had any use for the title.”
“You might be able to fool everyone else with your noble performance, but not me. Of course you want the title. Everyone wants to better themselves. And if you don’t want it, then why did you stay here?”
The color in Georgiana’s face drained away.
Luc leaned toward Quinn and quietly drawled, “Ahem, now would be an excellent time to unshackle yourself from that namby-pamby diplomacy of yours and unleash some good old-fashioned shouting.”
Quinn maintained an iron grip on his control—refraining from the intense desire to throttle someone: Helston, Gwendolyn, or his own blasted inability to protect the one person he knew deserved his protection—had earned his protection—but did not want it or him.
Ata’s eyes narrowed, glaring at him in expectation. He turned and saw expectation in Grace’s eyes as well. In Georgiana’s eyes, there was no expectation—only blankness, and it chilled him to the core, nearly blinding him with a desire to take her in his arms and shield her from everything.
“Madam,” he said finally into the stillness, a surge of something forcing him to say the unutterable. “There is a certain brand of ugly selfishness and questionable morals that abides in the hearts of many. Most are capable of suppressing their true natures. Unfortunately, you, and your son were incapable of doing so.”
Georgiana inhaled sharply. “This has absolutely nothing to do with Anthony. I’m certain he had no idea about the laws pertaining to—”
“Wait, Georgiana,” Ata interrupted. “I, for one, want to hear what he has to say.”
“I will not allow you to say one single word against Anthony. He was everything you are not,” Gwendolyn Fortesque shrieked. “He was the best of sons, the best of men. He—”
“—is not under discussion,” Quinn finished. “But, then, neither is Georgiana. I will not allow you to discuss your daughter-in-law or your odd notions regarding the legality of her marriage to anyone beyond this circle. If you dare breathe a word of this ridiculous theory to anyone, I will transfer every last unentailed farthing to Georgiana in my will. Have I made myself perfectly clear, madam?”
“Bravo,” Ata said softly.
Georgiana cleared her throat. “You know, all of this is really unnecessary. Lady Ellesmere,” she said, “my family and I had already decided to remove from here, now that my father is no longer steward of Penrose. There is no need for—”
Quinn interrupted her with sadness. “You do not have to answer to anyone, Georgiana. You may choose to live wherever your heart desires.”
“Well, I never—” began Gwendolyn Fortesque.
“—know when to stop,” interrupted Ata.
His aunt’s instincts were clearly at war within her. On one side was the obvious desire to humiliate Georgiana and on the other the need to impress the woman who outranked her: the tiny yet powerful Dowager Duchess of Helston. The latter won out.
“Your Grace,” Gwendolyn said, “I do beg your pardon for having to witness this sad business. I have always been a great admirer of yours, and have always hoped a friendship would bloom between us. I was much honored to learn from our housekeeper that you and your friends are staying with us. Do allow me to escort you to see the rest of the activities tonight. The harvest festival here is the most famed in all of Cornwall. But I’m sure you know that, Your Grace.”
Quinn had not taken his eyes off of Georgiana for a moment. She wore a mask, yet he knew with all his heart that she would not be able to take another moment of this insanity. “I’ve decided to end the festival early,” he said. “I’m going outside to make an announcement. I’ll have the vicar offer up the final prayer immediately. There will be no further festivities.”
Georgiana looked at him. “That’s not the way of it, Quinn. Everyone will be so disappointed. Please don’t. Don’t do this. I, for one, will be disappointed.”
Georgiana Wilde—no, Fortesque—damnation—was the greatest liar he’d ever encountered. He was a fool to have never known it before now. He’d always thought her as transparent as the water in Loe Pool. But then, hadn’t he proven to be the poorest judge of character the world had ever known?
Chapter 13
August 28—to do
- review ledgers—again
- visit with ladies at Penrose—again
- organize menus—again
- ask Mrs. Killen to hire an additional personal maid—again
- write to Grayson—again
- look at properties Luc has proposed…yet again
Georgiana twirled a single fragrant stem of dog rose between her fingers while she reviewed the stack of ledgers Mr. Brown had left for her. The last two weeks, someone, probably Miles, had ridden by Little Roses and mysteriously left on the doorstep each morning a different bloom—alwa
ys a rose—for her, sans note. Georgiana supposed it was because, at heart, he was a gentleman, and felt it his duty to supply an admitted wallflower with posies. It had been so silly to mention that she’d never received any bouquets. It was just unfortunate she wasn’t as well versed in the language of flowers as Rosamunde and her kindhearted brother.
Most mornings she had carried the bloom up the short hill to the great house, forcing herself to pretend everything was fine and normal while she visited with all the ladies within Penrose’s hallowed halls. And every day, a footman had interrupted her visit after five or ten minutes to inform her that her presence was kindly requested by Mr. Brown. And again, every morning, she had gratefully escaped to the steward’s chambers, which had slowly but surely become Mr. Brown’s. Even his soothing bay rum scent had seeped into the walls.
She wasn’t a fool. She knew Mr. Brown was trying to divert her, spare her as much as possible from the indignities she endured when forced to spend time with Gwendolyn Fortesque.
Oh, it was awful. Ata had no idea how much her constant defense, and that of the rest of the widows, pained her.
“My dear Georgiana,” the tiny dowager duchess said to her this morning, “since you, Rosamunde, Grace, and I are the four highest-ranking ladies in Cornwall, I think we should have our likenesses taken, don’t you? Grace knows a wonderful portraitist in London.” She continued without waiting for Grace’s support. “Oh, do let’s have a painting commissioned. Sarah and Elizabeth must be part of it too, of course.”
And Gwendolyn Fortesque had spent the next fifteen minutes attempting to insinuate herself. “Perhaps Your Grace might consider including my daughters? Henrietta and Margaret are visiting my sister, but I could send a letter to them. They would make a lovely addition…or even I might…” She lost her nerve after encountering Ata’s sour expression.
Gwendolyn’s newest tactic toward Georgiana was to ignore her completely, going so far as to stare at a point on the floor when forced to converse with her. Never meeting her eye, yet never, ever daring to insult her.
