by Allison Lane
The final betrayal occurred when she got pregnant. He was furious, convinced that she had deliberately conceived. Vowing that he never wanted children, he ordered her to get rid of it. She refused. Even after her doctor explained that the antibiotics she had taken for a strep infection had reduced the effectiveness of her birth control pills – a known interaction that no one had thought to mention earlier – he didn’t believe her protestations of innocence.
Cherlynn thrust further images aside. It did no good to remember those days. She had more important things to consider – like saving Drew from a similar fate. He wouldn’t have the luxury of divorcing Fay. Once the vicar pronounced them man and wife, he would be stuck for life – which in his case was a barren three years.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fay seethed. Drew needed a reminder of his duties, but she hadn’t been able to deliver it. While heading for Broadbanks, she’d spotted him half a mile away, riding with Emily Fairfield. The scheming chit was too prostrated to accompany Anne on calls, yet possessed the energy for a cross-country gallop.
“Harlot!” The chit was becoming a serious threat. And not only because Drew fancied himself in love with her. Emily herself was a problem. An unexpected core of steel lay beneath her surface innocence. And considerable independence. Why had Drew responded so positively to her when he derided those same traits in Fay?
Fay would never forget that humiliating confrontation five years earlier. She had followed him to one of the follies, demanding tales of the recently concluded London Season and making the perfectly natural statement that she could hardly wait until he took her with him.
“Why should I?” he had demanded.
“Surely you’ll take your wife to town!” she’d sputtered in surprise.
“Of course, but that has nothing to do with you.”
She’d nearly swooned at the cruel words. “You know very well that we’re betrothed,” she had shouted at him. “Our fathers arranged the match years ago.”
He had laughed. “Surely you’re not naïve enough to believe the foolish prattle of two old men. They’ve tossed the idea around, of course, but it was always left up to us to decide our own futures. And mine doesn’t include you.”
“But you can’t jilt me! I’ve counted on this match all my life.”
“Forget it, Fay,” he’d said coldly. “I’m not responsible for your delusions. I’ve never given you any cause to expect an offer from me. My wife must be sweet-tempered, quiet, and conformable. I’ll not be saddled with a pest. You could never qualify.”
Her father had verified that no settlements were yet signed, but assured her that Broadbanks considered the match settled. He had passed off Drew’s comments as the usual spoutings of a man just down from his first Season, but she wasn’t convinced. For months she had worked to become his ideal wife, but when she pointed out her progress, he had coldly dismissed her and moved to Thurston Park.
She hadn’t spoken to him again until he returned to announce that he would wed the insipid Lady Emily. At least she’d thought the girl insipid when they’d spoken briefly at the ball. But she wasn’t. And that was dangerous. So independent a chit might even accept a position as live-in mistress.
Fay cursed, not bothering to lower her voice. Beyond choosing a wife with backbone, Drew must have confessed his crimes to her. Jaime had reported seeing the pair on the cliffs one day, with Drew apparently pantomiming his fight with Randolph – which eliminated her best method for forcing Lady Emily out of Broadbanks. Threatening to expose his misdeeds should have made Drew send her away. Whatever possessed the girl to remain with an admitted killer?
More curses filled the air as Fay rode back to Raeburn House. Lady Emily could easily convince her brother to leave. She need only claim that society would misconstrue her continued stay at Broadbanks. Lady Clifford was already anxious to be gone, spurred by Fay’s suggestion that Emily’s reputation had been besmirched by Drew’s hovering in the sickroom and would only recover with a prompt marriage. Fay considered repeating the insinuations to Lord Clifford, but reluctantly set the idea aside. Gentlemen had rather odd ideas about honor. If Clifford thought Drew’s attentions had injured his sister, he might feel compelled to challenge him.
She sighed.
Lady Emily wasn’t her only problem. Frederick was another thorn in her side. The moment he had learned of her father’s attack, he had taken charge of the estate. No one questioned his right, but he was making the most of the situation, ordering her to remain at home and threatening to replace Miss Testmark with a stricter companion if she disobeyed. Somehow, she must get rid of him. He ignored her age and impending marriage. He disregarded the fact that ownership of the estate would transfer to Thurston in another month. His demeanor had been even more unsettling since his two-day absence last week. He now stared at her, pursing his lips like a disapproving spinster. And he treated her like a wayward child.
A solution sprang to mind, bringing a smile to her face. She could remove both of her problems with one stroke. Frederick must marry Lady Emily. It would be to his advantage. The girl had a considerable dowry, and Frederick must be destitute if he was willing to demean himself by turning to trade. Even inheriting the barony would not overcome that taint. He would have to return to America, where Emily’s dowry could buy an estate.
She immediately tracked him down in the stable and broached the subject.
“You’re all about in the head, Cousin,” he exclaimed, breaking into laughter. “I have no interest in Lady Emily, nor she in me. Forget it.”
“Why not? She’s nice enough to look at. Her training is all that is proper. And her dowry will set you up very nicely.”
“I don’t need to marry for money,” he countered, surprising her. “Besides, I’ve already got my eye on a wife.”
“Some tavern wench you met in town?” she scoffed. “Or is it the squire’s daughter?”
“Watch it, Fay. Your mother was a squire’s daughter – or have you forgotten? Not that it matters. I’m looking at Lady Anne. We will suit quite nicely.”
She glared at him. “What fustian is this? No marquess’s daughter is going to look at a landless baron’s heir, especially one from the wilds of America who has little choice but to return there.”
“It is a closer match than a marquess with a baron’s daughter,” he taunted her. “And I have no intention of returning to America. Broadbanks will include Raeburn House in her dowry. Thurston has already expressed regret that your father did not keep it for his heir.”
Shaking with rage, she left him. He would not scuttle her plans. Raeburn House was hers! And he must move far away. Something about Frederick disturbed her. Perhaps his incessant stare. His eyes were too perceptive. She could not allow him to live close by.
Whatever his thinking, he had not yet acted. Rumor would have reported if he were paying court to Anne, so she had time to counter this threat. Talking to Drew was her best option. He would counsel Broadbanks to turn down any suit. And Raeburn House must be put in her name before the wedding.
But that would not be enough. Frederick must take Emily off her hands. Since he wouldn’t do it willingly, she had to maneuver him into compromising the chit.
* * * *
Anne was at home to visitors, finally giving Cherlynn a chance to question the local gossips.
As Grace helped her into an afternoon gown and arranged her hair, Cherlynn set aside her nervousness. “Have you heard any new tales of Miss Raeburn?”
“It ain’t right to pry,” protested the maid. “Accept that he won’t ever be yours.”
“We’ve been over this too many times, Grace. Blame that horrid messenger if you must, but I must do this. If Drew prefers Fay, I can live with that, but I won’t drop my investigation until I know he will be happy with her. Now what did you learn?”
“She’s a bad one to cross, Lady Emily,” said the maid with a resigned sigh. “Few people will discuss her at all. She turned off one of the housemaids las
t spring. The girl had a broken arm, but refused to say how it happened. I don’t doubt Miss Raeburn was responsible, but nobody will say it right out.”
That fit Cherlynn’s image of Fay, but without evidence, it didn’t do her much good.
“Does she have any friends?”
“Not that I can find. I saw her talking to one of the Broadbanks tenants yesterday, but like as not they was only exchanging greetings.”
Cherlynn couldn’t picture Fay being friendly with inferiors. “Who was it?”
“Jaime Potts. He’s a big man, all dark and broody. But he just mumbled a few words and took hisself off. I was too far away to hear what he said.”
Jaime Potts. She’d heard the name before. The gamester whose luck had turned. A man had been lurking in the woods just beyond the gardens that morning. Jaime? The description fit well enough.
Ridiculous. She had spotted that man several times, so he was probably a groundskeeper. Between farming and gaming, Potts wouldn’t have time to hang around Broadbanks.
Setting her questions about Fay aside, she focused on Regency decorum. Attending a gossip session would provide invaluable research. But she must be careful how she probed Fay’s activities, and not just because Fay would retaliate for any perceived threat. Lady Travis would be one of the visitors. Every word Emily said would be disseminated to the ton, which would affect the girl’s reputation.
Cherlynn vowed to be the shyest, most retiring maiden in history, and not just on her own account. Even Emily would have had something to hide from the notorious snoop. She could not disclose Emily’s love, Drew’s proposal, or Fay’s blackmail. Fay’s reputation didn’t count, of course, but Cherlynn’s mistakes could redound on Drew. And on Emily herself.
Fortunately, by the time Lady Travis arrived, half a dozen other callers graced the drawing room. Cherlynn had quietly accepted felicitations on her recovery, though more than one voice was tinged with censure for her having fallen to begin with.
Lady Travis’s arrival was like letting a hurricane into the room, interrupting new speculation on Jaime Potts’s sudden solvency. “I see you have recovered from your fall, Lady Emily,” she observed after the most perfunctory of greetings to Anne.
“Quite,” said Cherlynn.
“She is still weak, however,” said Anne. “Dr. McClarren believes full recovery will take until fall.”
“What fustian,” said Lady Clifford, pursing her lips in disapproval. The woman had never believed in Emily’s amnesia, declaring that the girl was simply making herself interesting and that once Emily decided to recover, she would. “Has the Regent retired to Brighton yet?”
“Last week,” confirmed Lady Travis. “Will you be going there yourself?”
“Lady Ledbetter requested that we visit. A few weeks in Brighton will be excellent preparation for London’s autumn activities.”
Cherlynn tried to kept her face calm, but inwardly she grimaced. Emily’s memory wasn’t all that Lady Clifford expected to control. By announcing plans Charles had not yet accepted, she believed that he would have to comply. And he might. She couldn’t figure out Emily’s brother. He vacillated between genuine concern for her condition and rigid propriety that disapproved of her behavior, especially her calf love for Thurston. He had not put the infatuation into words since he had accepted her amnesia, but it lurked beneath his restrictions – she was to avoid the library, never leave the house without a maid, and pass the time with either Lady Clifford or Lady Anne. Fortunately, he trusted her to obey, so he hadn’t actually watched her. She had twice ridden alone with Drew, something Charles would never condone.
So Charles was an enigma. She could do nothing to counter Lady Clifford’s manipulation except feign continued weakness. Any protests would send Charles for the carriage. If she admitted she must stay near Drew, he would drag her away instantly. But she had no other valid reason for remaining at Broadbanks.
She had missed considerable gossip. Woolgathering would hardly accomplish her research. But even as she pulled her mind back to the drawing room, the discussion of Mrs. Monroe’s niece ceased as Fay arrived. That covetous gaze raked the room while Hardwick announced her. Fury briefly glinted in her eyes to find Emily part of the group, but she turned to Anne for the usual polite greetings.
Cherlynn effaced herself even further. She had no desire to speak to Fay. Instead, she set her mind to discovering how the various women interacted. The callers included both gentry and aristocracy, ranging from the vicar’s wife to Lady Anne. But rank wasn’t everything. Lady Travis, baronet’s widow, wielded more power than Viscountess Portrill, and even the vicar’s wife was more respected than Fay, a baron’s daughter.
Lady Travis quizzed Fay on her wedding plans. The girl’s triumphant smirk turned to cold determination when the gossip cut her short.
“Your father’s condition will postpone the happy event, of course,” Lady Travis said firmly.
Fay jumped. “I doubt it. He is holding his own at present.”
“I am surprised that you chose to call this afternoon rather than see after his welfare,” said Mrs. Monroe primly. “Rumor places him at death’s door.”
“Or beyond it,” murmured Lady Portrill.
The undercurrents in the room raised goose bumps on Cherlynn’s arms. Every lady present despised Fay, but she retained enough credit to be received. Yet it was odd that she had come today. With her father reportedly unconscious and barely breathing, Fay courted censure by her careless disregard. Had she come because of Emily? But that made little sense.
“An exaggeration,” said Fay coolly. “While he remains confined to bed, he has recovered much of his movement. His valet is sitting with him at present. And my cousin.”
Introducing Frederick succeeded in diverting attention to his background and plans. Miss Langley recalled the romantic summer during which Lord Raeburn and Frederick’s father had fallen in love with the Ryder twins, marrying them in a double ceremony after a whirlwind courtship. That led to speculation on how Hope had adapted to the wilds of America. Cherlynn kept her mouth shut, watching the interplay of personalities and the adept way Anne kept tempers under control.
The afternoon added new questions to Cherlynn’s list. Mentioning Lord Raeburn had displeased Fay. Or perhaps his illness enraged her. The man’s death would affect her plans – unless she was willing to flout convention by marrying during deep mourning. Would Fay take such a chance? It could ostracize her from local society. Yet postponing the wedding would give Drew time to investigate her activities. And Broadbanks’s death would remove the sword she was holding over Drew’s head. Would his credit cloak her once they were wed? Not a woman in the room approved of her – which meant Drew’s own reputation should survive when he jilted her.
At least locally. She hid a frown. Logic did not always count in the Regency period. Anyone who did not know Fay – and that included most of the ton – would hear only that he had broken off the betrothal. Thus Cherlynn had to find proof of something so heinous that no one would question his action. Mistreating servants wouldn’t do it. Even Fay’s affair with Randolph might not.
* * * *
Once the last caller left, Lady Clifford accompanied Cherlynn upstairs. It was hardly unexpected. She had been staring daggers ever since Cherlynn had refused to back up her summer plans. Thus it was no surprise when she launched into a tirade.
“Enough of wallowing in weakness,” she snapped the moment they reached Emily’s room. “No lady reveals her inadequacies to the world. Nor does she allow bad manners to show in public. I was most displeased with your performance today.”
“Why?”
“Why! You shook your head when I spoke of moving to Brighton. How dare you contradict your own mother?”
“I will not lie,” Cherlynn stated coldly. “You know very well that Charles plans to remain until Lord Thurston’s wedding, and that Dr. McClarren refuses to authorize any travel. He fears the jostling will make this memory loss permanent.”
>
“Ingrate. You would accept the word of a charlatan who cannot explain the very condition he claims you suffer. I have known you since birth! The only thing wrong with your memory is a missish refusal to cooperate. Obstreperous girl! You know your duty, yet you pretend ailments to avoid it.”
“Would you care to state that in plain English?” she retorted, furious at the woman’s antagonism. She had put up with similar determination in her youth. Her mother had always wanted to be an actress and had tried to live that fantasy through her daughter, forcing her into dance classes, music lessons, and countless theatrical auditions. But at least she had eventually accepted that Cherlynn lacked the looks, the talent, and the interest that were necessary for success. She finally quit pushing, though she never fully approved of her daughter’s real interests. But Lady Clifford didn’t even give Emily a chance to protest – something Cherlynn had never thanked her own mother for – instead, planning everything for Emily, right down to the identity of the girl’s husband. Poor Emily. After years under this woman’s thumb, she would have no idea how to take charge of her life.
“You must find a husband,” declared Lady Clifford, confirming her suspicions. “Already you are eighteen. Charles should have insisted you come out last Season. I yielded to your pleading then, but no more. I will not tolerate this unnatural desire to avoid town.”
Cherlynn said nothing. Arguing could only make matters worse. Lady Clifford’s mind was as tightly closed as Fort Knox. Emily had probably refused a Season because she had not yet caught Drew’s attention. But she could hardly defend the girl without revealing her relationship with Drew.
