Randolph escorted Sedge back to his room, staying an hour to make sure Cecilia would not press her claims. When he left, he dropped his servile facade long enough to order the footman still stationed in the hall to forbid any visitors until Mrs. Hughes brought up the dinner tray. He should be back by then.
CHAPTER NINE
Randolph paced the schoolroom, pausing to stare out the window on each circuit. He had chosen this vantage point because it offered a clear view of the path that led to the Wilson farm.
Learning which path Elizabeth would use had been surprisingly simple, a testament to his odd place in the household. No one had seemed shocked when he’d showed up in the kitchen. All had readily talked to him. Not only did they identify the route to Wilson’s farm, they had revealed that Elizabeth was on foot. Her horse had survived the accident, but he’d turned up lame and could not be ridden for at least a fortnight. Fosdale had refused permission to ride another animal. It was yet another of his petty tyrannies.
So Randolph had positioned himself where he could spot her return. He needed to discuss the day’s events, and he preferred to be the one who broke the news. But as the hours passed, he had to wonder if he had missed her. Had she called somewhere else so she would return by a different route?
He was on the verge of inquiring below stairs again, when she popped up almost beneath him, heading for a side entrance that would bypass the servants’ hall. He grimaced, for he could not reach the door before her. But surely she would freshen up before doing anything else.
* * * *
“What are you doing?” demanded Elizabeth. Mr. Randolph had just walked into her room as if he owned it, locking the door behind him.
He shrugged. “This is no more compromising than any other meeting we have held.”
“Of course it is. You are in my bedroom!” She considered shooing him into her sitting room next door, but that wouldn’t work, either. Her desk was littered with papers she dared not let him see.
She shook her head, flustered by his presence, in part because it seemed so deliciously illicit. For some reason, this felt far more intimate than the times she had entered his bedchamber to change the dressings on his shoulder. Warmth stained her cheeks. Her fingers tingled with the memory of those touches. She cursed.
But he didn’t notice. He was looking doubtfully at the decor. “I would not have guessed you were the chintz sort.”
“I am not. Mother chose the furnishings. Fosdale refused to allow a child any say in the matter – this despite that I was sixteen at the time and that Mother had never exhibited a lick of sense.”
“Did she do the same for Cecilia?”
She nodded, grateful for a neutral topic. “But Cecilia’s tastes have always matched hers. I am the ungrateful daughter whose lack of sensibility places unbearable burdens on her nerves.” She stopped the bitterness before she revealed too much, for her mother erroneously believed that Elizabeth’s refusal to espouse her interests – which had resulted in numerous tearful confrontations over the years – had turned Fosdale against them all. “It was the only time he allowed her to redecorate anything, so she gave me no say in the matter.”
Randolph watched the emotions flit across her face. His chat with the servants had convinced him that every member of the family was engaged in an endless struggle for identity and power, which undoubtedly contributed to her vow of eternal spinsterhood. How could he persuade her that marriage need not lead to war?
“Please go before someone discovers you here,” she begged.
“It would change nothing.” He cut off the expected protest with a wave of his hand. “Later. We have more serious business to discuss.”
“We do?”
“Symington had already left his room before I could deliver your warning.”
“Dear Lord!” She blanched.
“Exactly. Your sister did not waste any time. Fosdale found them together in a sitting room.”
“I should have expected her to enlist his help.” She snapped her mouth shut as if she had not intended to reveal the thought.
“This is no time for polite niceties, Elizabeth,” he said, then ignored her glare at his familiarity. “My opinion of Lady Cecilia cannot be stated in polite company, and your father is worse. But that does not reflect on you,” he added, realizing that he was digging his own hole deeper. “I know you disapprove of forced marriage, so I assume you will help to prevent this one.”
“Of course.” Confusion swirled in her eyes.
“Thank you. The best way to effect Symington’s escape is to give Cecilia a disgust of him and convince her that whatever fantasies she harbors can never become fact. So I must know the exact details.”
“Why work to free Symington when you have made no effort to escape your own coil?” she asked slowly.
He heard the bitterness in her tone. And another note he could not identify. “Our situation is entirely different, Elizabeth. You in no way schemed to trap me. In fact, I brought about the situation entirely on my own. And I do not find the idea repellent.”
“So you say, but honor often prompts gentlemen to lie.”
“What? No gentleman can hold his head up after perpetrating a lie.” But the words echoed hollowly in his head, for he could hardly deny that his entire life was a lie just now. Perhaps she saw a flicker of unease in his eyes, for she shook her head.
“Men lie often,” she claimed. “Particularly when honor demands that they act against self-interest. It would be wiser to accept the truth, regardless of honor’s demands. A forced union is bound to raise bitterness that will influence the relationship for life.”
The words froze something in his chest. “May we please postpone discussing our own future until later?”
She sighed, but nodded.
“Thank you. At the moment, I am more concerned about Symington. I cannot stand by and see him ruined by a pair of greedy schemers.”
“I cannot condone either of them, but how can Symington escape? I thought no gentleman could cry off a betrothal without destroying his reputation.”
“True, but he suffered a relapse and escaped before he agreed to anything. Your father believes a betrothal exists, but since Symington neither made an offer nor accepted one, he can honorably refuse.”
“Then where is the problem?”
He clamped his lips together, forcing her to answer the question herself.
“Fosdale will tell everyone that Symington debauched Cecilia, then refused to do the honorable thing. Even if most people accept Symington’s word, his reputation will suffer.” Anger flashed in her eyes.
“Exactly. There are always those who believe the worst about everyone. So we must force Cecilia to cry off. You said she had unreasonable ideas about London society. What exactly did you mean?”
She hesitated.
“Please, Elizabeth? I know you feel loyal to your sister – and I must share the details with Symington – but I swear they will go no further. I have no interest in besmirching your family.” But he did have another reason for asking. Understanding her family’s foibles could shed more light on their internal power struggles, making it easier to overcome her aversion to marriage. He stifled the thought lest it show on his face.
“Very well.” She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, then stared out the window. “To understand Cecilia, you must understand my parents, though I suppose it really goes back to Grandfather.”
“I thought you were close to him.”
“I was. But he caused most of Fosdale’s dissatisfaction. And that led to Cecilia’s fantasies.”
“She dreams of escaping Ravenswood?”
“And Cumberland.” She sighed. “Grandfather acceded to the title while he was still in school and achieved control of his fortune at five-and-twenty. He was the first to admit that he was not ready for such responsibility, having fallen in with the macaroni set.”
“That was hardly a crime,” he protested, for Whitfield had belonged to that same grou
p. Only after she turned to stare did he recall that he was supposed to have no personal interest in this tale.
She resumed watching the storm. “Perhaps, but his immediate circle of friends spent more time at the French court than in England. They were dissipated wastrels, interested only in wine, women, and deep gaming. Few lived to see forty, the rest dying of accident or in affairs of honor.” She choked on the word.
Randolph stifled another protest, for she was not describing the duke he knew. “Symington told me that Whitfield was one of your grandfather’s friends,” he said carefully. “Were both involved in that?”
She nodded, abandoning the view to meet his eye. “Whitfield held the Wyndport title at the time and as far as I can tell was the most stable gentleman of the group. Not that it mattered.”
He raised a brow.
“Grandfather – like all gentlemen – had an exaggerated faith in his own abilities. He considered himself immune to the stupidities other young men committed. He did not recognize his own foolishness until the night he lost nearly every penny he had inherited to a French comte. That sobered him. And he did demonstrate a modicum of sense. Instead of trying to recoup, he returned home. Wyndport was appalled and also quitted Paris. I suspect he might have felt a trifle guilty, for it was he who had introduced Grandfather to the comte.”
Guilt. Was that why the duke had pushed this match? Was he still trying to make up for leading his friend astray? “Wyndport could hardly be responsible for the losses,” he protested in defense of his grandfather. “No one forced Fosdale to wager everything he owned.”
“I forgot you are also related to the man, but you need not argue, for I agree. People are responsible for their own actions. I know that Wyndport was shocked, but if he felt any responsibility, it was because he learned the lesson without personally paying the price. He had also been betting heavily, but after Grandfather’s disaster, he gave up gaming. Or perhaps there was something havey-cavey about the game that he believed he should have spotted.”
“You think someone cheated?”
“How could I know? Even Grandfather never mentioned such a possibility. But Wyndport accompanied him back to England and never returned to France.”
Her tale explained much. Whitfield had a reputation as a puritan and had often lectured about the evils of wagering, especially when combined with heavy drinking. “How much of his inheritance did Fosdale keep?”
“Ravenswood and a small house in London. He lost two other estates and all his money. Selling the house raised enough to keep Ravenswood operating, but its income only supports the estate itself. He refused to go into debt, so he could never return to Town or even visit one of the spas. Thus he failed to find a well-dowered wife. My grandmother was the daughter of a nearby squire.” She sighed. “Not that I hold that against her, for she was a wonderful, loving woman. But Fosdale still feels the sting of what he considers his questionable breeding.”
“Thus his determination to forge connections to a duke.” His voice was cold. And not just because of Fosdale’s plots. What had the man done to Elizabeth? Only now did he realize that she referred to her father only by title, never acknowledging a blood tie.
“That is part of it, I suppose. But his first goal is wealth. He never forgave Grandfather for losing the family fortune. Though he attended good schools, his allowance was smaller than the other boys received, making him the butt of many jokes. It hardened him, according to Grandmother, feeding his determination to recoup. So he threw himself at the most prominent heiresses in England, earning a name as a flagrant fortune hunter. Naturally, that closed many doors.”
“But surely the estate supported a comfortable living,” he said, thinking of those books in the library. “Why is it that money was still so tight if Fosdale abandoned gaming?”
She shook her head. “You grew up in the south, but northern England is quite different. The fields produce well, but much of our land lies on the mountains, which cannot be tilled. The hillsides aren’t even good for grazing, for little of the growth is grass. The estate keeps us fed and clothed, but even repairs must be postponed in bad years. With all this rain, the coming year will be an especially lean one. Our tenants will suffer greatly.”
“So your father failed to find a rich wife,” he repeated, returning to her narrative.
“He finally gave up and settled on siring an heir. Lord Bornhill has an estate in the next valley. He was equally impoverished at the time and grateful to find a match for his only daughter. His sister Constance hadn’t been so lucky. She remained a spinster and now lives in the dower house. I was returning from a visit when we met.”
“An unforgettable meeting,” he said, daring a smile.
She laughed. “That it was.” But her face quickly returned to a frown. “Mother accepted the match because he offered an escape from spinsterhood – and because she knew he had visited London, though I doubt she understood how short his stay actually was. She had always dreamed of an elaborate London Season, where she would be swept off her feet by a handsome, wealthy gentleman and carried away to live happily ever after.”
“Not an unusual dream.”
“For young girls,” she agreed. “But Mother was already five-and-twenty. Most people learn to distinguish fact from fantasy as they mature. But she never did. Fosdale swore that he would someday recoup his fortune. She has lived on that promise since the day he proposed. Whenever things look dark, she loses herself in air dreams where she is hailed as Society’s darling and adored by everyone she meets. The dream has hardly changed in twenty-five years. At times I think she believes it really happened.”
How sad – and disturbing. She would hardly be the first person to retreat from reality, but he thought people used that defense only to escape intolerable lives. What had Fosdale done to her? And how had it affected Elizabeth? But that must wait until later. Sedge’s problems took precedence.
He took a turn around the room. “I take it she passed her fantasies to Cecilia?”
“She did.” Shaking her head, she let out a disgusted sigh. “But that is not the problem. As you pointed out, many girls share that dream.”
“But not you.”
“I have more sense, and I have read widely. Unfortunately, Cecilia expanded Mother’s dream, adding to the fantasy.”
“How?”
“It is difficult to explain,” she admitted, pacing. “All these years, Mother’s images of London have sustained her, allowing her to ignore Fosdale’s abuses.”
“He abuses her?” His tone had a hard edge that brought a flush to her face.
“Not that way. I’ve never known him to strike anyone. But he enjoys humiliating her, and he uses the promise of London to ensure obedience – not that he would ever take her there,” she added bitterly.
“So she escapes his derision by dreaming,” he said evenly.
“Quite successfully. But that provides an unfortunate example for Cecilia. She now sees London as a panacea for all ills. Thus living there will guarantee a long and ecstatically happy life.”
“That should be easy enough to disprove. The London papers contain ample evidence to the contrary.”
“I did not use the word obsessed lightly,” she warned. “She discounts news stories, for a tale becomes news only if it is out of the ordinary.”
He choked.
“We have held this discussion too often for me to mistake her reaction. She can also cite chapter and verse from myriad romantic novels to support her views.”
“Good God!”
“Quite. Now there is a slight chance that you might succeed where I did not – after all, she knows I have never visited Town. She told me quite recently that Lord Symington, being a London gentleman, will prove my contentions false and reveal me as a jealous antidote seeking to deprive her of her rightful place in the world by locking her into a position as my lifelong companion.” His choking increased, but she continued without pause. “You can set her straight on that score, for yo
u must have been there.”
“Not often. I am not overly fond of the place.”
“How about Symington?”
“He hates it. Society is a frivolous collection of toadeaters, fortune hunters, and title seekers, whose antics make it impossible to poke m—one’s nose out the door without being trampled.” He forced the passion from his voice – she was staring – and quickly changed the subject. “Tell me of this neighbor who has offered for Cecilia.”
She continued to stare for nearly a minute before complying. “He owns the next estate and is a perfectly proper gentleman, but I cannot imagine that you would know him.”
He bit off a more specific question, for Mr. Randolph had few connections. Raising further suspicions would expose him. He had already come too close by not weighing his words before releasing them.
Elizabeth settled into a chair. “He has been courting Cecilia for two years. She enjoys his company but has steadfastly refused to consider marriage. Personally, I believe she harbors a strong tendre for him, though she will never admit it. Her obsession with London obscures everything else.”
“Why would she not be content with going to London as his wife?”
“He has never promised to take her.” She frowned. “Actually, he has never admitted to being there himself, though he must have done so, for he is often absent for months at a time. It is only in the last two years that he has stayed home.”
“Do any rumors hint that he might have lost his fortune as your grandfather did?”
“No, though I know little of his finances. His mother fell ill two years ago. She lives in Carlisle now, to be near her doctor. He visits often.”
Randolph let the subject drop. If Sedge wanted to know more about the suitor, he could ask.
He paced to the window and back. “So your mother has never been out in Society, but always longed to. She passed that yearning on to Cecilia, who added her own exaggerations and misconceptions to the tale and now refuses to consider any other life.”
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