by Betina Krahn
“It was that Rupert Fitch,” Eleanor said, watching her distress. “He has been snooping around the house for days—”
“Th’ miserable little sod,” Gertrude added with a fierce expression.
Antonia looked up and found them gathered around her chair, some scowling, others smiling sadly, but all clearly offering her their love and support. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I knew it was wrong to go, but I believed him when he said he had changed his mind about women, about us. And I believed he really cared—” Her voice caught on a ragged emotion and she had to pause to free it. “I don’t care what people say of me. But I know that my indiscretion will reflect upon Sir Geoffrey’s memory and on you. I only hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive …”
“There ain’t no need to apolly-gize, Lady Toni,” Molly said, patting her shoulder and looking to the others to support her words. “You ain’t never held a single wrong against one o’ us. How could we blame ye fer falling into th’ same sin all women been caught in, one time or other … havin’ too soft a heart?” As the others nodded and gave her warm hugs, the few remaining worried expressions melted into rueful smiles.
Antonia didn’t think she had enough water or salt left in her to make two good tears, but she did. Then as she absorbed their touches and reassurances, the warmth of their affection transformed those tears into a grateful smile. In that moment she felt a bond with them that went far beyond good works or friendship or even ties of blood. It was an attachment made of love. She had once given help and comfort to them, and now found it returning to her, twelvefold.
“Poor Lady Toni,” Prudence said mistily, breaking the sweet, emotion-filled silence. “Just when you and his lordship were coming to an understanding. No doubt he is fit to be tied.”
Antonia froze as the shock of his betrayal descended with unexpected violence on her again. Remington. As she sat in his bed, savaged and humiliated by their taunts, they had congratulated him on doing a fine job of helping them with their revenge.
How could he have done such a thing to her?
How could she have trusted him?
“Fit to be tied?” she said, struggling to contain the pain inside her. “Fit to be hanged is more like it.” She met their confusion and dismay with anger that had fermented in the heat of the long night just past. “He knew all about it. In point of fact, he planned it.”
Paxton House was not the only place where the article was having an impact. Over the last two weeks Gaflinger’s Gazette had found its way into Buckingham Palace on a regular basis and had been circulated both below stairs and above—out of the queen’s sight, but not entirely out of her hearing.
When Victoria entered her private sitting room that same morning and glimpsed Beatrice and her daughter-in-law Alexandra whispering animatedly over a newspaper, she called them to account. They jerked the paper beneath the sewing table, stalling until she demanded to see what they were reading. As they produced the publication, she took note of the florid masthead and chastised them.
“Imagine. Princesses of the realm patronizing such a vulgar and sensational bit of ink-blotting as that Garflunker’s.” No one corrected her pronunciation. “What can you have seen in that scandal-rag that has you in such a dither?” She folded her thick hands at her middle and waited for them to speak. When they hesitated, knowing how it would enrage her, she extended a much-beringed hand for the paper and was soon reading of the scandal herself.
Her face reddened, the way it did when someone referred to Gladstone as “GOM” in her presence. Her eyes narrowed, as they did when someone mentioned marriages or betrothals in the hearing of her unwed daughter Beatrice. And her mouth pursed in the very same manner it did when she learned her profligate son and heir, Bertie, had taken up with yet another red-haired actress.
She stiffened to her full, diminutive height and summoned the royal wrath she reserved for those she considered to be under the grave and God-given obligation imposed by noble rank and fortune.
“A ‘nameless nobleman involved in a public wager with a lady’?”—she erupted—“Troth! It could only be that scapegrace Landon!”
“Now, Mama, you know how these newsmongers are. If there is no news to be had, they brew some themselves so they can stir it,” mild-mannered Beatrice said.
“It matters not who did the brewing—we know full well who will do the stewing. Whether or not any part of this monstrous report is founded in fact, Lady Antonia Paxton has been grievously compromised. We cannot believe she would stoop to an assignation with the wretch; she is too good and decent a woman—a widow, herself, who has lived quietly, in extended mourning for her dear husband.” And the queen could give no higher praise to a woman than to link her mourning to the profound and ongoing grief she felt for her dear Albert.
“She has devoted herself to helping those less fortunate. Her work for the settlement house of our Widows’ Assistance League has been exemplary. No, Landon is the one to blame; that much is clear. He should be horsewhipped from here to Canterbury for embroiling her in such a debacle.” She paced back and forth, rapping the folded paper against her palm as she grasped the ramifications of the earl’s perfidy.
“Him and his nonsense about women’s equality and women’s rights—he’s carried on a veritable crusade against marriage these last two years. The Almighty alone knows how many seeds of discord and malcontent he has sewn across our realm.” She turned to them with her mind working visibly and her jaw set at a particularly Saxe-Coburgian angle.
“The situation must be rectified and the lady’s good name restored. What better way to do that than to make the accursed earl actually reap the crop he has sewn?” She turned to her daughter-in-law with a fiercely compelling smile. “Alix, dear, find John Brown and have him send us a palace messenger.”
When the queen had seated herself at her writing table, Beatrice rose and hurried to her mother’s side. “What will you do, Mama?”
The queen looked up with her pen poised above a sheet of her black-edged vellum. “We will send for the Earl of Landon … and congratulate him upon his upcoming marriage.”
The next morning, exactly upon the stroke of eleven, Remington Carr was being escorted up the stairs to the queen’s receiving room at Buckingham Palace. He was dressed impeccably, in his best gray morning coat and pin-striped trousers, and as he strode along the corridors, his carriage and manner were the very essence of noble assurance.
But his air of confidence hid a wealth of dread. He knew the moment the black-edged envelope bearing the royal seal was placed in his hands that he was in trouble. For a nobleman involved in a scandal, receiving a summons from the dour and reclusive queen was like being sent an engraved invitation to the guillotine.
The footman delivered him to a chair-lined antechamber, where he remained, cooling his heels and simmering in his own expectations. At length he was admitted to the main receiving room, a long, ornately appointed chamber. The queen, dressed in her customary black dress and white cap, sat at the far end on a regal-looking chair supplied with a footstool. She was attended by her private secretary, her Scottish gillie, John Brown, and two of her ladies-in-waiting.
Protocol dictated that he wait at the far end of the room until he was given permission to approach her. So he waited, standing uncomfortably at attention while she perused him from afar. She murmured to her secretary, then glanced at Remington. She spoke for some moments with her gillie and tossed a narrow look in Remington’s direction. Then she rose from her chair and began to pace, setting her heels down sharply and folding her hands before her as if to constrain them. For several minutes she paced, lashing him with a contemptuous glance each time she turned—delivering him a scathing lecture without uttering a word.
At long last, when she was worked into a fine temper, she returned to her chair and raised two queenly fingers, giving them a faint twist that ordered him to approach.
With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, he came forward and m
ade a restrained bow. She did not extend her hand to him, and from that he understood that he was to maintain a distance of several paces.
“We have taken note of your activities, Landon,” she said, speaking to him directly. “And we have been appalled. You have made it a point to challenge decency and morality and to try the patience of society, the Church … and the Crown. You have at last succeeded in trespassing the good graces of all three. Do we make ourselves perfectly clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He was relieved to find that the cotton in his mouth didn’t prevent him from forming intelligible words.
“In the matter before us”—she considered it indelicate to mention the exact nature of his offense, but her meaning was never in doubt—“you are to make full restitution to the injured party.” Sitting straighter, she announced with steely pleasantry: “We are pleased to be the first to congratulate you on your coming marriage.”
Remington felt his face reddening and clenched his jaw briefly before loosening it to speak. “My marriage, ma’am?”
She met his reaction with a cool smile.
“A drastic remedy, perhaps, but a fitting one. We are given to understand that you have declared marriage an onerous and hateful burden, a veritable shackle to be borne through life.” Her dark eyes snapped as she leaned forward in her chair. “It is our sincere hope that you find marriage to be exactly what you expect. For it is through suffering that mankind learns repentance.” She sat back with an air of vengeful satisfaction. “We shall save our compassion for your bride.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she sat back and raised those imperious two fingers, giving them a dismissive twist. She turned her face from him, declaring that the interview was over. Swallowing back his protest, he bowed and started toward the door. The sound of his name halted him in his tracks. He turned back and braced.
“We expect we shall see your marriage notice in The Times,” the queen said, without looking up from the document she was reading, “within the fortnight.”
Remington strode from the palace in turmoil. He had just been given a royal raking, along with the promise of much worse if he did not marry Antonia within a fortnight. Though she lacked the power to throw him into prison or confiscate his lands as monarchs in former days were wont to do when displeased by a noble, the queen certainly had the power to ruin him politically and financially if he refused to comply with her wishes.
He stepped into his carriage and sat for a moment under the driver’s expectant gaze, stunned by his unexpected sense of relief. For a day and a half he had prowled his house and offices, antagonizing his staff and servants, feeling angry and guilty and impotent to do anything to resolve the situation. Drastic though it seemed, the queen’s ultimatum had given him the excuse he needed to see Antonia and set things right.
“Where to, yer lordship?” his driver asked when he looked up.
“Paxton House,” he answered, squaring his shoulders. “And be quick about it.”
“M’lady isn’t at home,” Hoskins said with a glare as he peered out from the narrow opening of the door. “Not now. Not ever.”
The door closed with a slam that Remington felt like a slap in the face. Red crept up his neck as he seized the knocker and gave it several forceful raps, determined to make the old fellow admit him. But the door remained shut, and the deafening silence from the other side roused both anxiety and irritation in him. He knocked repeatedly, without success, then added the side of his fist on the door, and finally called out to old Hoskins and to whoever else might be listening that he intended to stay and pound until they admitted him.
After several minutes, just as his hand was throbbing and his blood had come to a low boil, the door opened a small crack … then wider … and wider. Hoskins stood in the way for a moment, staring daggers at him, then stepped aside to reveal Aunt Hermione. She looked uncharacteristically solemn as her gaze drifted over him.
“Please, Mrs. Fielding, it is imperative that I speak with Antonia,” he said, rubbing the battered side of his hand. She engaged his eyes, searching his intentions, then with a heavy sigh gestured to Hoskins to admit him.
When he stepped inside, he found himself facing Eleanor, Victoria, Florence, Molly, and Pollyanna as well. The looks they wore ranged from outrage to accusation, to wrenching hurt, expressions that said he had betrayed and disappointed them even as he had Antonia. He shifted awkwardly, from foot to foot, until Hermione instructed Hoskins to take his hat.
The old butler resisted, blazing with indignation, but finally snatched the hat from Remington’s hands. Then, with a blistering look of defiance, he dropped the elegant hat on the floor and set his heel down savagely in the middle of it, splitting the brim and squashing the crown flat. As the old boy shuffled back through the hall, Remington blanched, unmanned by his virulent reaction.
“Forgive us, your lordship.” Hermione’s gentle tones were an island of civility among hostile currents. “It has been a most trying time for all of us, especially for—” She sighed and led him into the drawing room. “I cannot promise she will see you.”
“I must talk to her, if only briefly,” Remington said, lowering his guard enough to let her see that it did indeed matter to him. “I need to explain and set things right.”
Hermione appraised him with a look that said that might not be possible, then left the room. When she returned, she asked him to stand out of the way, by the window, then positioned herself by the door. When Antonia entered, calling, “Auntie? What is it? What is so urgent?”—Hermione darted back out the opening behind her without being seen, and the doors closed with a bang, sealing them in.
Antonia whirled to look at the doors, confused, and Remington stepped out of the shadows of the window curtains, calling her name. She started and turned back. The sight of him caused a rush of hurt and longing deep inside her, and she panicked briefly, retreating as he advanced.
“Antonia, you must allow me to explain,” he said tightly.
“I must?” she said with a catch in her voice. Then the first, painful shock of seeing him passed and she came to life. “I cannot believe you have the nerve to show your face here. Remove yourself from my house”—she flung a trembling finger toward the doors—“before I call for the constables and have you removed.”
“I know you’re furious,” he declared, stalking closer. “But you must believe that I never intended … what happened.”
“You can stand there and pretend you never intended to charm and seduce me? To make me a laughingstock all over London? To take revenge on me?”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean—I never meant—”
“Liar,” she charged, starting for the doors.
He caught her by one arm, then the other, and pulled her to a halt. “All right—I admit it. At first I did come here to slay the dreaded Dragon of Decency … to see to it that she never again trapped a man into marriage.” She looked up at him with shimmering heat in her eyes as that word—dragon—dredged up the painful memory of something he had said in the lulling and treacherous confines of his bed.
“The Dragon of Decency?” she said in an indrawn breath.
“That’s what they called you … among other things.” He glanced away, pained by the admission. “And I believed them. There were six of them, all with the same story—how could I not? I came here to slay a dragon … and instead I found you.” His eyes darkened and his hands tightened on her arms. “That afternoon, in your room, I knew I could never go through with it. I went to them and told them the whole idea was off. They were furious, and after I left, they started drinking. That night they came to my house to confront me, not knowing you would be there.
“I had no idea they would break in on us, Antonia.” The tension in his face and frame were compelling. “Please believe me, I didn’t want to hurt you.”
The tenuous bit of hope that crept into the recesses of her heart almost undid her. Against her better judgment she looked up, searching him, needing to know that at lea
st something of what had passed between them had been genuine.
She found herself staring into his chocolate eyes, longing for the sweetness she had glimpsed in them, hungry for the passion they had offered her. She was still susceptible to his touch, his smile, his desire. She still wanted some part of his heart.
The depth and intensity of that wanting suddenly terrified her. She had lowered her defenses and forsaken hard-won wisdom about the nature of men, to follow silly, girlish dreams of love and romance. She had believed it was possible for him to have a change of heart, because she believed he had a heart to change. Now she knew better.
He might have actually desired her. He might have taken pleasure in the banter, the chase, or the challenge of seducing her. And he might honestly regret forfeiting the pleasures he had taken in her arms. But those losses had to do with his pride and his loins, not with her. And they certainly had nothing to do with things that came from the heart, like compassion or affection—or love.
The knowledge hurt, but it also stayed and settled her. She couldn’t allow those old, adolescent dreams or newly awakened hungers to betray her, ever again. She was a woman, not a green girl. There was no turning back the clock, no second chance.
“What do you want of me, your lordship?” she demanded with a bitter edge. “Absolution? Forgiveness?”
He hesitated, searching her eyes even as she had his.
“I want to make it up to you.” He swallowed hard and braced himself. “I’ve come to offer you … marriage.”
Surprise melted some of the rigidity of her shoulders. She stared at him, sensing that he was serious and completely at a loss for how to deal with so unexpected a development. It was the very last thing she would have expected of him. The Ladies’ Man. The Suffragist. The Freethinker. The Ultimate Bachelor.
