by Allison Lane
He visibly pulled himself together. “Of course you can. But for now, you must return before your mother disrupts the entire household with her frenzy.”
Without warning, he grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet, then picked up her book. “I’ll slip this into your ro—” His voice died as he saw the title. “My God! You’re reading Fielding!”
“So?” The fat was in the fire anyway. She would not apologize.
“Emily, ladies never read Fielding.”
“Why? He’s quite humorous.”
He was pacing the floor, one hand tangled in his curls as he tried to form a coherent response. “Agreed, but his stories are bawdy.”
“Which contributes to the humor. And they are excellent studies of human nature. Being human, ladies should learn about personal relationships. Ignorance puts us at the mercy of liars, seducers, and unscrupulous men who wish to prey upon us.”
“But protecting you is the duty of your family.”
“Who aren’t always available,” she countered. “And Charles is hardly the most competent protector. He is so blinkered, he sees only what he wishes to see.” Why else had he missed the myriad liaisons between Drew and Emily?
“Astute of you,” he conceded, then sighed. “We haven’t time to debate the question now, Em. I will deliver the book to your room and slip it under your pillow. But you’d best be careful. If it is discovered, Charles will likely incarcerate you for life. I dare not consider what Lady Clifford would do. She makes a formidable opponent when riled.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A week later, Cherlynn and Lord Broadbanks paced slowly through the formal gardens. Though his arrogant expression matched the portrait hanging in the gallery, his pale face, swollen fingers, and irregular breathing hinted at heart problems. Her father had suffered similar symptoms before he died of congestive heart failure, but the absence of twentieth-century drugs made the marquess’s situation worse. He was caught in a vicious cycle of angina attacks which forced him into bed rest, reducing his stamina so his heart had to work harder when he arose, bringing on more angina.
Recognizing his illness changed her plans. She had considered probing his friendship with Lord Raeburn and the betrothal he had arranged for Drew, but she now abandoned the idea. He did not have long to live in any case – a heart attack would kill him on September seventeenth – but emotional shock might hasten that end, complicating an already messy situation. The very fact that he was walking with her was a change from history that could affect his health.
If only he had not insisted on joining her. She didn’t want him to collapse while in her company. Had she known that he was on the terrace, she would have left through the front door – she had slipped outside to be alone. But by the time she’d spotted him, it had been too late to escape.
He had not yet joined the family for dinner, but she’d recognized him from his portrait, even though Reynolds had painted it thirty years before. Without that, she would never have pegged him as Thurston’s father. Aside from brown eyes, they looked nothing alike. Broadbanks was tall and wiry with the most aristocratic face she had ever seen. Hauteur suited him. As did disapproval. Within moments he revealed himself as a belligerently opinionated man who despised new ideas. His notion of right and proper had been carved in stone in his youth, mellowing not one iota in the intervening years. Too bad she hadn’t anticipated how passionately he would defend even unimportant ideas.
“The park is lovely, though personally I prefer a vista closer to Repton’s naturalism,” she replied to a question. Hiring Repton to redesign the estate had been Drew’s first move after gaining the title. She had seen the results in her own time and found it more relaxing than the rigid Italianate garden of 1812.
He snorted, his face purpling alarmingly. “The man lacks discipline. How are we to maintain order if we surround ourselves with chaos?”
She bit off a caustic reply. Irritating him would do his heart no good. Nor would it help Emily’s reputation. So she did not point out that Repton was every bit as controlled as his predecessors. The result might look natural, but every plant was carefully placed and shaped to achieve that effect. Nothing was allowed to spring up on its own.
And his basic premise had merit. A person’s surroundings did influence his character. Children growing up in violent neighborhoods accepted violence as normal, making them more apt to use it as a problem-solving tool. In like manner, youngsters surrounded by books and whose parents appreciated learning were more likely to become readers.
Cherlynn forced her mind back to the marquess, who had forgiven the untutored statement of a mere girl, but was now set on educating her. “My great-grandfather inherited both the estate and the title from his uncle, the first marquess, in 1697. The estate was on the decline at that time – the first marquess having been a better warrior than a manager – but the second marquess dedicated his life to restoring it. It is a legacy I intend to leave to my heirs.” His voice caught, reminding her that he had lost both of his younger sons – William in battle early in 1811, and Randolph only a few months past.
“And a beautiful legacy it is,” she agreed, letting her eyes wander over the view. The rigidly formal style assured that man’s hand was obvious in every planting. Each tree or shrub was trimmed to a precise shape. Every hint of imperfection was instantly removed, whether dead leaf or faded flower. It reminded her too much of a Renaissance painting. But she kept her mouth shut. Not knowing what Emily would have admired, she chose to be the shy maiden.
The path turned a corner, which she cut too sharply, impaling the skirt of her muslin morning gown on a rose bush.
“Phooey!” A thorn scratched her hand as she wiggled the fabric free. Again she was jeopardizing her cover. Emily would not have been so careless.
Long skirts were the pits. Actually, she hated skirts of any length, preferring jeans and T-shirts. Her casual garb was another trait Willard had criticized. But now she had no choice. Emily’s dresses constricted her, making it impossible to move freely.
And the gowns weren’t all that constricted her. She had often included clothing descriptions in her writing, but had never fully understood how those garments affected the wearer. The reality had led to an argument with Grace the first time she had dressed to go downstairs. Emily had a less formal relationship with her maid than was usual between lady and servant – probably because they had been together for eighteen years. As a result, Grace felt free to protest when Cherlynn ripped off the corset and refused to put it back on.
“’Tain’t proper,” the maid insisted. “You’ll destroy the fit of the gown.”
Cherlynn nearly countered with “Bullshit,” but caught herself in time to change it to “Fustian! The gown is so loose it would fit a woman six months with child. I can’t breathe in that thing. Do you want me to faint from lack of oxygen?”
Grace’s frown reminded her that oxygen might not have been discovered yet.
Cherlynn sighed. No wonder Regency ladies were always swooning. “Grace, I can’t explain. But I know that squeezing my body into unnatural shapes is harmful.” After years of battling fat, Emily’s lithe figure was heavenly. She had no desire to change it.
“Did your messenger tell you that?”
It took her a moment to recall the tale she had spun. “He must have. Where else would I get such an idea?”
“But why would he want you to ruin your reputation?” Grace asked, her satisfied smirk making this lethal blow to the argument even more irritating.
Further discussion had led to a compromise. She would wear the corset, but only if it was laced so loosely that it nearly slid off. Deliberately flouting the rules of proper dress would attract attention she did not need. It was bad enough that she had none of Emily’s accomplishments. Lady Clifford had asked her to perform on the pianoforte in the drawing room the previous evening. She couldn’t. Two years of piano lessons back in grade school did not constitute talent. She couldn’t even read the notes. Lady Clifford had decide
d that Emily was being obstreperous and had read her a blistering lecture when they were alone, but Cherlynn couldn’t rectify the situation, vowing instead to draw as little attention to herself as possible. And so she walked with Lord Broadbanks and encouraged him to talk. If she kept her own mouth shut, she wouldn’t give herself away.
“Fortunately, Drew is finally taking his duty seriously,” he said as they turned back toward the house. “Randolph’s death demonstrated how vulnerable we are to fate. Drew needs to secure the succession, a fact he could no longer ignore, offering for Miss Raeburn the next day.”
“I thought that the marriage had been arranged years ago,” she said in surprise, then modified her tone. “At least that’s the impression my brother had.”
“Lord Raeburn and I had often discussed the possibility, but Drew was free to make his own decision. He spent five Seasons in town, so has had ample opportunity to meet other candidates.”
They had reached the steps to the house. Lord Broadbanks’s valet waited to assist him inside, so she bade him farewell. But the hair on her arms was standing on end.
Needing time to think, she slipped back into the gardens and headed for the nearest folly.
Contradictions piled atop contradictions. No wonder Emily was staying away. The poor girl must have been too confused to think straight. Charles swore that Drew’s betrothal had been contracted in childhood. Either the arrangement was common knowledge, or Drew had mentioned it. Yet Emily had told Grace that Drew waited only for parental consent before proposing to her. What game was he playing?
Lord Broadbanks claimed that Fay was merely a suggestion and that Drew was free to marry where he would – thus validating Emily’s words. But that left Drew looking like a cad, for after leading Emily to expect marriage, he had offered for Fay anyway. She didn’t want to believe he was dishonorable. And surely Emily would have learned the truth after her death if not before. The fact that Emily had brought her back should be proof that there was more to learn than she had yet discovered.
Cherlynn stepped on a rock, turning her ankle.
“Damn!” she muttered under her breath. She had been striding along with her usual gait, forgetting yet again that she was no longer Cherlynn Cardington. Footwear was another penance. Emily was apparently one of those widgeons who tried to appear dainty by cramming her feet into slippers that were too small. Even the half boots that were presumably made for walking pinched her toes. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Shoemakers hadn’t yet discovered that feet had shape. Every slipper was identical, with no distinction between left and right. Nothing supported her arches. She would give anything for her Reeboks.
The path entered a stand of trees. If memory served, it would emerge behind the Grecian folly that marked the northeast corner of the 1998 grounds.
A cat slunk behind a rhododendron, obviously hunting. It didn’t know how easy its life was. It had only to sneak up on a bird or rodent, pounce, and it had all it needed. If only her goals could be achieved so simply. But she must question people if she was to succeed. And those questions couldn’t reveal her purpose. Damn!
Why was Drew betrothed to Fay? Cherlynn had to understand that before she had any hope of preventing the marriage. But no one had given her a definitive answer. She could hardly ask Drew. Amnesia could forgive a multitude of sins, but she doubted it would excuse that one.
A new thought struck, and she gasped. She was merely a guest at Broadbanks. Now that she was recovered, would Charles decide to leave? He had mentioned staying until the wedding, but Lady Clifford was pressing harder each day to move to Brighton, citing the benefits of sea air for convalescents. Yet Broadbanks was also near the sea. Had Emily recalled that her movements were at the mercy of her mother and brother? Somehow she must deflect Lady Clifford without involving Drew.
She frowned. Her conditioning program was essential, but perhaps she should claim continuing weakness. And she must work harder to conform to proper conduct lest Charles decide to remove her from the public eye to protect her reputation.
Rounding a corner, she spotted the folly just ahead. It was more charming than she had expected, and not just because it was in good repair. Trees had not yet taken over the hillside, thus the view was stunning. A picturesque lake nestled in the valley, a herd of deer sheltering in the trees at one end.
But the folly was occupied. The last thing she wanted was people. Lady Clifford’s insistence that she be constantly accompanied was stifling. In fact, this was the first time she had escaped the house without Grace. She was slipping back into the woods when voices halted her in her tracks.
* * * *
Drew sank onto a bench in the Grecian folly and tried to relax, but the view over lake and valley refused to work its usual magic. His life was a disaster whose proportions grew larger by the hour. In less than two months he faced marriage to a woman he despised, but even that wasn’t his worst problem. He could no longer trust his own judgment.
Every time he spoke to Emily, she revealed new interests. He had stopped visiting the sickroom the day she first left her bed. The decision had wrenched him, for he enjoyed talking with her, but he had already pushed propriety too far. So he waited until she was strong enough to leave her room.
Now he didn’t know what to think. If the exchange in the library had shocked him, discovering her engrossed in Tom Jones had left him dumbfounded. In the week since, he had deliberately tested her knowledge, casually mentioning a number of subjects young ladies were not expected to understand. She had followed his lead every time, engaging him in stimulating discussion.
But as enjoyable as the exchanges had been, he found them uncomfortable. And not just because she always caught herself and retreated into a shell. Her knowledge was breathtaking. She knew everything Shakespeare had written, and had argued interpretation with him. She showed a surprising familiarity with Wordsworth, Scott, and Pope, loved Fielding and Mary Wollstonecraft – which would send Lady Clifford into strong hysterics if she learned of it – and admired a poet named Blake whom he had not heard of. After that last conversation, he had combed the library and actually turned up a book by the fellow. But Emily couldn’t have read it. The pages remained uncut.
How had he missed her intelligence and education all this time? He’d known her for years. It was true that he had paid her little heed when she was younger, but could even a consummate actress hide such interests during childhood? And why maintain the charade with him? She’d had ample opportunity to trust him with her secret, for they had often met in the woods that separated Thurston Park from Clifford Abbey. The day they had talked of marriage, he had mentioned Odysseus – hoping that his trip to speak to his father would not resemble that man’s journey home – but her eyes had held only the blank stare of incomprehension.
And you were disappointed. A wife with whom he could hold a rational conversation would be a real treasure. Emily now proved to be just such a person.
“Devil take it!” he muttered. Emily was off limits. Why had she divulged her interests now? It was bad enough to rue the loss of her beauty and sweetness. Must he also regret losing a keen mind?
Footsteps climbing the hillside interrupted his reverie. Fay. She stormed across the folly to loom over him.
“I won’t have that girl at Broadbanks any longer,” she hissed, her face twisted in fury. “It’s all over the village that you tended her sickbed and practically live in her pocket now that she is recovered. How dare you insult me so! If she is well enough to leave her bed, then she is well enough to return to Yorkshire.”
Damnation! The servants must be spreading exaggerated tales. Why did they hate him so much? But Fay needed to learn that he had limits beyond which nothing could push him. “We may be betrothed, but that does not give you the right to rule my life,” he replied calmly. “Your father allowed you to act the hoyden, but I expect decorum from my wife. And obedience.”
Her expression changed to contrition. One hand touched his sleeve in supplicatio
n, making his skin crawl. “You are making me a laughingstock, Drew,” she protested. “It is your duty to protect me.”
“Duty?” He snorted with a mirthless laugh. “You’ve had all the duty you’ll ever get from me. Don’t push your luck.”
She stomped her foot. “Is this how you treat the woman who has loved you for so many years? You’ll both regret insulting me. I won’t have your doxy here another day.”
“Insulted? Impossible. Your lack of breeding shines, as usual,” he taunted, injecting coldness into his words. “Lady Emily is the sister of my closest friend and the daughter of a highly respected earl. She was more a lady in her cradle than you can ever be.”
Fay laughed. “So masterful, my love. But you forget with whom you speak. I know that you fancy yourself in love with the chit. She has to go. Either she leaves tomorrow, or I will visit your father. He doted on Randolph, you know. The poor boy could do no wrong. The shock of learning that you murdered him would have a detrimental affect on the dear marquess’s health.”
“So precipitous,” he drawled, hiding his fear and loathing. But part of him wished she would divulge everything. It would remove the responsibility for hurting Broadbanks from his shoulders and destroy his credit enough that jilting Fay would seem a mild transgression in comparison. “You would cut off your nose to spite your face. Lady Emily will remain here until the wedding. Despite taking an occasional turn about the gardens, her health is still precarious. A lengthy journey can only harm her. And she would hardly arrive home before she would have to return for our nuptials.”
“She needn’t go all the way to Yorkshire if her health is that bad,” sneered Fay. “Clifford could just as easily house her in London. She would be closer to her doctor there anyway.”
He rose, his expression forcing Fay back a step. Ice dripped from every word. “This discussion is pointless. Lady Emily stays. Run to my father if you must, but you are correct that he doted on Randolph. Learning that I killed my brother would infuriate him. Do you know what he would do?”
