by Liz Carlyle
“Heavens!” His eyes flared wide. “I hope Upshaw didn’t rake you over the coals for it?”
She shook her head. “Uncle? No. Why should he? But I will own that I’m surprised by the announcement.”
Reggie caught her hands and squeezed them in what was apparently meant to be a reassuring gesture. “I was looking for you, Kate, to make an apology,” he said, stepping respectfully back. “I behaved abysmally yesterday.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Reggie,” she said, moving past him, “not that again.”
“Of course not, another time,” he said hastily. “But Kate, this business with Nancy, what may I do? Anything? Would Nancy listen to me? I can be on the first train to Exeter tomorrow.”
Kate turned back to shake her head. “Thank you, there’s nothing to be done,” she said. “Mamma went with her, and Uncle gave his blessing with a little reluctance. Tomorrow would be too late in any case.”
Reggie tried to look concerned. “So Upshaw will not try to undo it?”
Kate arched one eyebrow. “Certainly not,” she said. “It is done, and they are alone together at an inn. Indeed, even if Uncle had disagreed with the match—which he did not—he’d likely hold a gun to Richard’s head if he tried to get out of the marriage now.”
Reggie merely stared at her for a long moment. “Would he?” he finally said. “Yes, doubtless you’re right. Everyone will assume that Nancy has been ruin—”
“Reggie.” Kate held up a hand. “I think we all know what people generally assume. But this is what Nancy wants, and it’s done.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure.” Then, his expression oddly distant, Reggie made her an almost courtly bow. “Well. We must wish them happy, then. I know I certainly do. I will see you, Kate, at dinner.”
And then, as quickly as he’d turned up, Reggie was gone—or at least the person purporting to be Reggie. He had not spoken so kindly to Kate in an age.
Mystified, Kate shook her head, and went on to attend her guests. Sensing the mood, even Lady Julia looked cast down. After dinner, the hour being late, everyone retired for the evening.
Grateful for the peace of her bedchamber, Kate collapsed into bed, and spent the rest of the night in a fitful, feverish sleep. She dreamt of Edward; of the warm weight of his body pressing hers down into the softness of the bed. Of his heated touch, and passionate kisses.
But in her fantasy, there were no words. No explanations and no excuses. For logic had become the enemy, and Kate had grown weary of it.
CHAPTER 15
An Encounter in the Rose Garden
The course of true love never did run smooth, nor did the paperwork required to execute it. What followed was a bleak, misty day, much of which Kate spent closeted with Lord Upshaw, first attempting to make peace, and then trying to convince him that much could yet be done to protect Nancy’s welfare.
To his undying discomfort, this required the presence of John Anstruther, who returned from Exeter on the first train up, and came into Kate’s study bristling like a bear. He appeared to be sodden, weary, and spoiling for a fight.
However, a good night’s rest had served to temper Lord Upshaw’s outrage. He rose stiffly at Anstruther’s entrance, hands clasped tight behind his back, holding his tongue as he’d reassured Kate he would do.
Anstruther, however, was blunt as he stood before Kate’s desk. “I’ll have nae whinging from you, Miss Kate, nor suffer any lectures from that one,” he said, jerking his head toward Upshaw. “Say it plain. Am I to stay? Or go?”
She looked up at him incredulously. “I can’t think how you even ask,” she said. “Have we not always been like a family here?”
“Aye, weel, things can change,” said Anstruther, his great sideburns puffed out a little comically. “Myself, I wouldna’ done it, Kate. Run off to the bishop, I mean. But your mither—once she takes a notion intae her head—”
Kate held up a hand to stay him. “Lord, don’t even attempt to explain the workings of Mamma’s mind!” she said. “Just sit down. Upshaw wishes us to reassure him that the glebe can support Nancy and her children in an appropriate style.”
A little of the belligerence left Anstruther. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, aye. Prime arable, no question.”
The three of them sat down, and Anstruther took up the tools of his trade; his ledgers and his maps and his meticulously drawn tables setting out anticipated crop yields acre by acre. When they were finished, there being nothing, truly, to be displeased over, Upshaw pinched his nose pensively.
“Well, I need not remind you again, Kate, of your fiduciary duty to the Bellecombe estate,” he said. “But you’ve hacked off a considerable bit of land and let it pass from Wentworth hands forever.”
“Nancy will be a Wentworth forever, Uncle, to me,” said Kate softly. “Besides, as Anstruther will tell you, that acreage was never entailed. It came to the estate through Grandmamma, and Anstruther was her godson. Why should it not go back to their side of the family? If, indeed, we must have a that side and a this side.”
“And we still have the matter of marriage settlements,” said Upshaw, unable to suppress a dark look at Anstruther. “Your daughter, sir, has married without any. That is the very purpose of a trustee, you know. To ensure such a thing does not happen.”
“Aye, to protect her from fortune hunters, I know,” said Anstruther uneasily. “But Nan has no great fortune, and Burnham’s an honest lad.”
“On her majority, Nancy will receive twenty thousand pounds from my late fatherin-law’s estate, as per Aurélie’s marriage settlements,” said Upshaw pompously. “And as it currently sits, her new husband will have every legal right to take it to Epsom the next day and wager it on the first nag he sees.”
Anstruther scratched his chin. “Aurélie did say something of it,” he admitted, “though I dinna grasp the particulars. Burnham said we might draw up whatever we wished in that regard, and he’d sign it.”
“Well!” Kate opened both hands in an expansive gesture. “There is no reason, Uncle, is there, that Richard cannot sign settlements postnuptial?”
“Why would he do so?” Upshaw demanded.
“Because he’s a man of his word,” said Kate firmly. “But there, Uncle! You do not know him. It’s as good as done, trust me. Just have the papers drawn.”
Upshaw, however, did not yield with perfect grace. “There is still the matter of the house,” he said. “The current rectory is a mere hatbox, and the man has a widowed mother.”
“The new rectory is of sufficient size, sir, to accommodate the three of them and ten children besides,” said Kate. “Why do we not meet there tomorrow, the three of us?” She paused to consult her schedule. “How would eleven o’clock suit? If the house does not meet with your approval, Uncle, then we shall alter it in whatever way you wish.”
“Hmph,” said Upshaw. “You seem to have thought of everything!”
Kate laid her pencil down with a sharp clack. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I try.”
An hour later, the trio parted, with Upshaw and Anstruther setting off in relative charity to Taunton, to engage a local solicitor to draft the settlement papers. It was further agreed that Upshaw would remain at Bellecombe an additional day to host a dinner party for the returning couple, in order to put the burnish of his approval on the marriage.
Kate followed them from the room, quelling the impulse to search out Edward in order to share with him how the business had been settled. But the truth was, it really was none of his concern, and the crisis had been averted. Absent Upshaw’s inclination to drag the matter into the protracted hell of Chancery, the marriage of a village rector to an unknown country miss was not going to draw any speculation.
Certainly de Macey seemed to have found the entire business soporific. Kate discovered him asleep in the library while, at a table nearby, Aurélie and Lady Julia played cribbage for sixpence a match.
In the back of the room, something deeper was at stake. Reggie and his new cohort Sir Francis were playing a
card game that appeared far more intense than cribbage. She watched blandly as a great wad of banknotes changed hands—in Reggie’s direction, for once—then she went to the window to peer out again at the weather.
It was not raining, but the skies hung gray and heavy. She considered riding into the village to personally tell Mrs. Burnham of the dinner party, but Jasper had likely left with the message by now.
Still, there was no denying Kate felt an odd and restless wish to flee the house. It was Edward, she realized; her need to see him—and for no reason save the pleasure of his company—was wrestling with her better angels.
A part of her longed for those early days when they had not known who he was. When he had been merely Edward, and not the notorious Ned Quartermaine with his pernicious gaming hell and his illegitimate daughter.
Her heart heavy, Kate went instead to the shelves to find a book to read. A comforting piece of fiction seeming most appropriate to her mood, she drew out a well-worn copy of Emma, and was halfway to her favorite chair when she recalled the sad subplot of poor Harriet Smith, the illegitimate and abandoned daughter of a gentleman.
That was too dreadful a subject to be borne just now, Kate decided. She turned around to slide the book into its slot just as Sir Francis swept past, his eyes a little blacker than usual, and his jaw set tight.
“Lady d’Allenay.” He paused to give a taut but civil bow. “Good afternoon.”
“Sir Francis, I’d advise you not to play with Reggie,” said Kate lightly. “Tragedy inevitably follows—his, usually. But alas, occasionally someone else’s.”
“The tragedy was mine this afternoon,” he said with a faint smile, “but I shall think of a way to win it back, I daresay, before the day is out.”
Then he bowed again, and left her standing alone in the middle of the library. Watching him go, Kate felt a faint, unpleasant shudder. She adored the Comte de Macey, but she didn’t care for his friend Sir Francis.
I have decided his eyes are too sly, Aurélie had said.
And Aurélie, as Edward was fond of reminding her, was not the fool she seemed.
THAT EVENING, EDWARD dressed for dinner in his most elegant black frock coat, worn over a jacquard silk waistcoat and a snowy white cravat, which he managed, through sheer happenstance, to tie flawlessly. Though the limited wardrobe he’d obtained in Taunton had served, he was more comfortable in the attire his valet had hastily sent from London.
He had seen almost nothing of Kate since they had parted so awkwardly the previous evening, and the fact that the awkwardness was entirely his fault did not escape Edward. He had spoken rashly, something utterly foreign to his nature. He had spoken, he feared, from his heart. How ironic, when most would have said he had no heart, perhaps himself included.
The awkwardness notwithstanding, he looked up in the mirror to inspect his attire, bristling with impatience to see Kate. A tall, lean man looked back, his stare unflinching. He was handsome enough, he supposed, though his jaw turned at a hard angle, and his eyes held no warmth.
He slid a hand around that jaw now, realizing he should have shaved again. In London his valet often shaved him twice a day. But he had not wanted the fellow here, for reasons he could not explain. Perhaps because, had his valet turned up, Edward would have felt compelled to be himself.
Here at Bellecombe, even with his memory fully restored to him, he was not himself. He was a more pensive, perhaps even kinder, man. He thought of the letter he’d penned last night, and wondered what Peters might make of it. Perhaps he’d turn up in Somersetshire to see if his employer had run mad.
Or perhaps not.
Hastily, Edward stabbed his neck cloth with a rare and flawless padparadscha sapphire that matched his ring, and then hastened down the stairs to find Kate to share his latest good news. Anstruther having kindly passed on to him the name of the rectory’s construction superintendent, Edward had been able to persuade the fellow to take a look at Heatherfields.
With the first two stages of the rectory complete, Mr. Moreland had offered to take up Heatherfields as his next project. His crews of masons, carpenters, and plasterers, who were rotating seamlessly through the rectory project, could simply move on in turn to Heatherfields before returning to Bristol, saving Edward months.
But when Edward arrived in the drawing room, it was to find Kate engaged with Lord Upshaw. Oddly disappointed, he conversed pleasantly with de Macey until they were summoned for dinner. As usual, Kate sat at the head of the table, and Edward some distance away.
At least they were not long detained after the meal. Since Upshaw believed port akin to a vice, the rest of the gentlemen soon drained their glasses and rejoined the ladies for coffee. Kate was pouring, however, and chatting with Lady Julia.
Edward took his cup, his eyes catching hers, their hands fleetingly brushing. Then he retreated to a corner where he might marvel at his own foolishness. He was like a besotted boy, he realized, and just about as impatient. Kate was not a toy to be trifled with; she was worthy of something far more significant.
Behold a virtuous woman, he thought, for her price is truly above rubies.
How ironic that she, of all women, should have been the one to catch his eye. There were few men who deserved virtue less; it was the antithesis of all that he had made of himself.
Tonight she wore a simple, more modest gown than the memorable gold and green affair, but the delicate shade of mauve set off her gray eyes to perfection, and hugged her curves in a way that still revealed a hint of lush cleavage.
“Bonsoir, Mr. Quartermaine,” said a warm, sultry voice at his elbow. “A quiet beauty, is she not?”
He looked down to see that Aurélie Wentworth had slipped alongside him. She was without her pug, a rare occurrence, and her eyes were alight with what looked like mischief.
“Ma’am, your powers of perception are exceeded only by your audacity,” he said, setting the cup down on its saucer with a soft chink.
“Alors, have I been complimented?” she said lightly. “Or insulted?”
Edward managed to smile down at her. “Complimented, Mrs. Wentworth,” he said. “In my line of work, both perception and audacity are frequently rewarded.”
“Ah, then I thank you,” she said lightly. “Speaking of your line of work, I wonder if you might be persuaded to take a turn through the rose garden with me?”
He looked down at her in some surprise, but set his coffee away at once. “Certainly,” he said after a quick glance to confirm Kate was still engaged. “If you do not mind the cold.”
“I am never cold,” said Mrs. Wentworth.
The drawing room opened onto the garden via three sets of French windows, heavily draped in green velvet. They slipped out, seemingly unnoticed.
Outside in the cool night air, Mrs. Wentworth circled her arm through his. “Do you know, Mr. Quartermaine,” she said abruptly, “I would not have taken you for a fool.”
“Hmm,” he said. “And do you?”
She laughed lightly, steering him toward the massive marble urn in the center of the garden. “In French there is a saying, Le coeur qui soupire n’a pas ce qu’il desire,” she said. “It was a great favorite of my grandmother’s. Do you know it?”
Edward tried to puzzle it out. “Something about the heart’s desire?”
“The heart that sighs has not what it desires,” said Mrs. Wentworth.
“I see,” he replied, more reservedly. “And you fear my heart is sighing, do you?”
She laughed again. “Bien sûr, dear Edward, your eyes are sighing,” she said. “But the rest of your parts? Ah, you are a difficult one—even for me, the amoral-as-a-cat Aurélie, who always knows what men are thinking.”
“I believe that, whatever it is, my heart shall have to survive it,” he said, circling with her around the massive marble urn. “Now, you require my professional assistance in some matter? I hope, ma’am, that you have not acquired gaming debts.”
“Certainly not.” For the first time,
Aurélie Wentworth sounded insulted. “But that is precisely what I wish to know about. Gaming debts. Specifically, Lord Reginald’s.”
“I am not sure how I can help you.”
She pulled him down onto one of the benches that surrounded the urn. “You know people,” she suggested in a sly tone. “You have ways of finding things out. Reggie is up to no good; I feel it. Lady Julia says he has had some bold talk of late, especially when he’s in his cups too deep. I should like to know precisely how bad his debts are.”
“He is insolvent, ma’am,” said Edward tightly. “I do not need to make enquiries in that regard, for it’s my business to know such things. The man has debts which cannot possibly be repaid, and he’s being pressed aggressively by his creditors—some of whom are not especially benevolent.”
“Yes, but you managed to get Heatherfields out of him,” suggested Mrs. Wentworth.
“Because I am the least benevolent of all,” said Edward. “I will not tolerate being cheated of what’s owed me, and Reggie knows it.”
But Mrs. Wentworth had stiffened, and was staring at the most distant set of French windows. Lord Reginald Hoke stood there, his back turned to the rose garden, and beside him stood the unmistakable form of Sir Francis. Their heads were leaned together in a vaguely conspiratorial manner, and from the intensity of both expressions and gestures, Edward guessed they were arguing.
“You have been guarding my wicket, Mr. Quartermaine,” said Mrs. Wentworth musingly, “and diligently. I thank you.”
Edward said nothing. Suddenly, Reggie appeared to thrust a hand inside his jacket, and present a wad of bills to Sir Francis. Sir Francis took them, then turned and set his hand to the doorknob.
“Mon Dieu, are they coming out?” murmured Mrs. Wentworth, leaping up.
“I doubt it,” he reassured her. “Not when they see us.”
“Ooh, I should like to know what that feckless creature is up to!” She flicked a glance at him. “Dépêchez-vous! Go in, go in!”
“And leave you?”
“Oui, oui.” She was already pushing him toward the door. “You are too large to hide.”
