“I apologise if I have chosen an inopportune time to call, Lord Dunstan, but what I have to say is of the utmost importance and cannot be put off. I shall not take up too much of your time.”
“I see,” Alistair said icily. “Then perhaps you had better step this way where we can speak in privacy.”
James followed him inside the room where, unbeknownst to him, Alistair had presented Louisa with a book of poetry by William Collins on the night of his party.
“Can I offer you some refreshment?” asked Alistair with steely politeness.
“No—thank you. This is not a social call. We both know why I am here.”
“When I returned your IOU, Fraser—” Alistair’s voice rang out in crisp, precise tones “—I hoped that would be the end of the matter.”
“So did I,” James replied, making a monumental effort to keep his temper under control. “Indeed I hoped so, until I was made aware of your reason for returning it, Lord Dunstan.”
“I see. Miss Divine has decided to enlighten you, I take it?”
James bristled on hearing him speak the name he never wanted to hear spoken again as long as he lived. “Miss Divine,” he rasped, with considerable emphasis, enunciating each word carefully, “which was a ridiculous name invented by Louisa for reasons which I shall make clear to you given time, is my sister, Lord Dunstan. She is not, as she led you to believe, my mistress.”
With grim satisfaction James observed the muscle that was beginning to twitch in Lord Dunstan’s rigid jaw, and saw his eyes becoming hard with grinding anger. Alistair stared at him, James’s revelation pounding through his brain like a million hammers. Burning rage at his own stupidity and blindness poured through him. At last everything fell into place—why she had behaved as she had, and why she had tried so desperately to save this man, so boldly confronting him, from ruin.
“Your sister! I see,” he said coldly, his voice indicating no surprise at the revelation. “That explains certain things about her behaviour which have puzzled me. Although I have to say the resemblance between you is only slight. You must believe me when I say that, if I had known this, I swear I would not have laid a finger on her.”
“How noble of you, sir. You took improper advantage of Louisa and her reputation has been irrefutably damaged, whereas to you I believe it was nothing more than a meaningless dalliance.”
“I confess that it did start out as a simple diversion, but you have to give her credit,” Alistair said, fighting down a surge of disgust when he recalled how expertly she had managed to dupe him, and how easily she had lost her virtue to him. “Your sister certainly knows how to set about capturing the attentions of the opposite sex.”
“That is not how it was and you know it,” James replied, striving to keep his anger in check as he considered what Lord Dunstan said about Louisa highly offensive. “Louisa is an exceptional girl, warm and outgoing. She is also extremely intelligent and has always had an understanding about most things way beyond her years. She is sensitive in many ways, but she can also be infuriatingly headstrong and as stubborn as hell.”
“Don’t feel that you have to sell your sister to me, Mr Fraser,” Alistair said scathingly, with a mocking curl to his lips. “She did that herself most admirably. I do know her, don’t forget. To my cost, I have had first-hand experience of falling prey to her winning ways. At the time I had no reason in the world to believe she was anything other than what she seemed. Come now, with your experience of such affairs, you must know they are not to be taken seriously.”
“It is quite a different matter when they happen to concern my sister. As Louisa’s brother and guardian you must see that it is my duty to defend her reputation and good name.”
“Of course. I would do much the same if it were my own sister. But your own behaviour in all this puzzles me somewhat,” Alistair said, his eyes narrowing as he fixed James with an icy stare, “for it is clear that you were prepared to go along with this charade. As I recall, you made no effort to rectify matters, either at Lady Bricknell’s, when you lost so devastatingly to me at cards, or when I invited you here. Why did you not make it plain at the time that she was your sister? Am I really to believe you had no part in this whatsoever?”
“I most certainly did not, sir,” James replied with indignation and angry force. Although, having had time to contemplate the situation on his journey back to London, and remembering the dress Louisa had suddenly appeared in for her visit to Dunstan House, having wondered at the time where she could have acquired it, he strongly suspected that Timothy must have been a party to it. He would have a few choice words to say to his friend when next they met.
The indignation that sprang to James’s lips, and the force of his words, left Alistair in no doubt that he was ignorant of his sister’s actions. James Fraser could be accused of many things, but lying was not one of them.
“Nothing I can say can excuse my own part in all this,” James went on, “and I have reproached myself many times for going along with it. Louisa’s appearance at Bricknell House that night was as much a surprise to me as it was to everyone else, and I truly believed she wanted to accompany me to supper here merely to keep an eye on me—to make sure I did not fall further into debt than I was already. Her fabrication was to save me from ridicule and embarrassment, which would have been the case had she appeared by my side as an over-protective sister in such company. I had no idea of her intentions where you were concerned, otherwise I would never have allowed it.
“She has given me a full account of her disgraceful actions and the lengths to which she went to retrieve my IOU—and I have to say that I was both shocked and horrified. No matter what your opinion is of me, Lord Dunstan, I am a gentleman by birth and, as a gentleman, fully intended honouring my debt to you. Because of my sister’s stupid, irresponsible act, which I must tell you was totally out of character, she has brought shame and dishonour to our family name and ruined whatever chance she had of making a decent, respectable marriage in the future.”
“That is unfortunate,” Alistair replied with amazing calm.
“Can’t you see that, being naive and inexperienced, she acted on pure instinct? I understand Huntswood means a great deal to you, so perhaps you can understand how much Bierlow Hall means to Louisa. It means so much to her that she was prepared to run any risk to hold onto it—and, if I had settled my debt to you, I would have been forced to sell.”
“And you were prepared to do that?”
“Of course.”
“I see. Then I can only assume that your family home means less to you than it does to your sister, otherwise, with nothing else to stake, you would not have run the risk of gambling it away at the card tables. Has it not occurred to you, Mr Fraser, that your own conduct is to blame for your sister’s actions?”
“Yes, of course. I am deeply ashamed of my past conduct—especially where Louisa is concerned—and have nothing to say in my defence. But it is not myself I came here to discuss, Lord Dunstan. It is you, and what is to be done to repair the damage done to Louisa’s reputation.”
Alistair’s eyes snapped sharply onto James’s face. Surely he did not have the temerity to demand that he marry her? “Naturally you are outraged and wounded, because in your eyes I took advantage of her and you have come seeking reparation. But let me tell you here and now, Mr Fraser, that I have no intention of making the ritualistic proposal. The mistake was hers entirely. She offered herself to me, and believing she was no different from all the other women who attend Lady Bricknell’s parties, I had no qualms about accepting her offer. She is an extremely beautiful young woman. What man in his right mind would refuse her?
“You are right. She is intelligent and a delight to converse with, and she has no illusions where my views on marriage are concerned. I made them quite plain to her. So—what would you have me do? What is your purpose in coming here? I can well understand your anger. Indeed, were it my own sister I would have done much the same. But the situation was of her
making. Not mine. I will not marry her. That is out of the question.”
“Not even when I tell you she is with child? Your child, Lord Dunstan—for it cannot be anyone else’s.”
Alistair was struck dumb. His entire body stiffened and he stared at James with incredulity, before his face hardened into a mask of freezing rage. Suddenly it was as if the sun had gone out and everything around him began to close in, suffocating him. He stood still, taut, fierce tension marking his mouth. He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. The sense of anger built to agony, and, with a sharp, terrible clarity, he began to realise that he’d made a fatal blunder. He’d been deceived—neatly, wholly, properly deceived.
“And I am to believe this?” he finally rasped into the reverberant silence, which to him seemed almost a lifetime later.
“What I have just told you is the truth,” James snapped bitterly, Lord Dunstan’s lack of interest or concern for Louisa’s well-being, apparent from the moment he had stepped inside the house, at last causing his own anger to snap and his frustration to explode. He stepped towards Alistair, his face livid and his hands clenched into fists by his side.
“My sister—who has rarely been away from her home—had never been with a man in her life before she encountered you. She lacks the advantage of your years and experience and—being an experienced man of the world as you are, Lord Dunstan—you must have known that. Did it not occur to you that you might get her with child? Did it not enter your head that such a thing might happen?”
Alistair glared at him. Not a muscle of the handsome, authoritative face moved. He had recovered himself quickly. “No. At the time I confess it did not.”
“Why not? Because you wanted to sever it from your mind while you took your pleasure of her—as you would do with anything else unpleasant you don’t want to know about? How dare you speak as if it were all her fault?” James fumed, his voice vibrating with fury, too enraged to notice that Alistair’s hard face was wiped clean of all expression.
“You have compromised my sister in the most dastardly way imaginable, and I had hoped that you, above all people, with a reputation for honour and for fair dealing with others, would answer for it. It appears I was mistaken. I see that you are arrogant and cold beneath all your trappings and fine looks, Lord Dunstan. How many other hearts have you trampled on? How many other women have you loved and then cast aside? How many other fatherless children have you begotten, who are running around with your stamp on them?” Angrily he spun round and strode towards the door, where he turned and looked back. “I can see that nothing has been achieved by my coming here today so I will bid you good day. I only hope your conscience lets you sleep at night.”
“Wait,” Alistair said curtly. Having no intention of becoming involved in what promised to be a bitter quarrel, he let James’s harsh accusations pass over him. Normally he would be outraged at being confronted and spoken to in such a manner in his own house, but he knew the words were spoken in anger and frustration, and he could well understand James’s concern for his sister. “Where is she now?”
“Where do you think? At Bierlow Hall feeling absolutely wretched—and completely overwhelmed by what has happened to her. I am afraid that to cover her shame, and to prevent total disgrace falling on me—for I hope to marry myself in the near future—she is thinking of going away until the child is born. After that—only she can decide.”
“I see. You hope to marry, you say?”
“Yes.”
“And this situation with your sister might prove awkward for you, an embarrassment, should it come out; is that what you’re saying?”
“Of course.”
Alistair nodded, his eyes sweeping over him with condescension as he began to realise that James Fraser’s sword was double-edged, that the purpose of his visit and his anger was not only for his sister’s well-being but also for his own self-interest.
“You must realise that this has come as a tremendous shock to me. However, contrary to your harsh opinion of me, let me assure you that I intend giving the matter serious consideration,” he said, in an implacable voice that warned James not to argue further. “If, as you say, the child is mine, you may rest assured that I shall make suitable provisions to provide for its future.”
“And Louisa?”
“My consideration will be for the child,” he said with cold indifference, unable to focus on Louisa at present.
“Then I suppose I shall have to be thankful for that,” James replied. “I shall be at Bierlow Hall when you have decided what is to be done. Good day to you, Lord Dunstan.”
James stalked from the room, leaving Alistair to stare after him with a clenched jaw.
After James’s departure Alistair stood staring out of the window for a long time, ordering a footman to cancel his carriage that was to have taken him to his club, no longer in any mood for socialising.
Self-disgust and burning fury coursed through him, reality crushing down on him as he suddenly found his life infuriating and complicated. Everything was out of his control and in a state of utter confusion—and all because he had been unable to keep his hands off Louisa Fraser.
He had spent years of evasion, trying to avoid a situation such as this, ignoring the whispers and sighs of women eager to shackle him once more with matrimony. And he had succeeded, believing himself immune, but it had only taken one look at Louisa, one curve of her lovely lips, for him to fall into a trap of his own making. He cursed himself for a fool.
Deep inside, what Marianne had done to him—her betrayal and the tragedy that had come afterwards—still haunted him. He had deliberately put the memory away, not wanting to look too carefully, but now he found it rising to the fore like some terrible spectre, so that he became caught up in its grip once more. To become deeply involved with a woman again was a situation he had always diligently avoided, but when he thought of Louisa, and her unhappy situation, he felt an uneasy pang of guilt.
He remembered how she had been, how she had looked—at Vauxhall, at Bricknell House, and that other time in the church and at Mr Brewster’s bookshop—when she had acted every inch a gentlewoman, and he should have known that that was precisely what she was. He recalled her incredible passion when she had lain in his arms, her sweetness, how she had driven him mad with desire, and how he had been unable to put her from his mind.
That night spent with her had been like a drug to his senses that he could not name but could not get enough of. She had fed his hunger, and ever since she had left a dull listlessness had trailed after him. He had hoped the memory of her would dim, but since their parting his passion for her had not grown less—and neither had the pain.
He hadn’t realised she had gained quite so much power over him. How could he have imagined for one minute that she was promiscuous? Yet, with a little encouragement from her, he had convinced himself that she was and treated her as such—and she had been too proud and desperate to retain her precious home to allow him to think anything else.
But, when he recalled the cold-blooded manner in which she had given herself to him to retain her family home, what pained him most of all was the fact that he could have been anyone. Her weak moral standards left her wanting in his eyes. His experience with Marianne had given him a contempt for ambitious, self-indulgent young women, who thought nothing of breaking their marriage vows. It was an experience he had sworn never to repeat.
He was unwilling to become involved yet again with another such as Marianne—and Louisa was no better. Yes! In essence she was just like her. Marianne, too, would have used the same kind of tactics to get what she wanted, having learned that there was no reason to tell the truth if it was to one’s advantage to tell a lie.
And as to marriage! No. Not when he had his life perfectly under control. Never. Never again would he be shackled to a woman in wedlock. He did not want another woman at Huntswood, either at his table or in his bed. His physical needs were satisfied well enough by women seeking diversion for a few nig
ht hours, women who wanted from him what he wanted from them. But what was to be done?
Common sense battled with his conscience. Could he cast away his child as well as its mother in so callous a manner as to cause them to suffer for the rest of their lives?
Chapter Eight
Travelling from the village of Bierlow towards Bierlow Hall, the landlord of a local inn where he had stopped for refreshment having given him directions, Alistair’s carriage moved at a steady pace, passing farms and thatched cottages, the road winding through a chequered patchwork of fields and long stretches of woodland. As he drove up the impressive avenue of oaks, with sunlight piercing the branches and dappling the lane with shadowy, dancing speckles, gradually the high ivy-clad wall that enclosed Bierlow Hall and its gardens came into view, the gables and tall chimneys of the large mansion projecting above.
Alistair was surprisingly impressed by what he saw, although it was obviously run-down and in dire need of attention. The Frasers’ lack of money was reflected in the house itself, with its peeling paintwork and wild tangle of garden, but, when he first saw the house, he was unprepared. It had for him an aura of a time gone by, and there was a quiet grace and beauty in its neglect, and one had the feeling that its family was not extinct. He found himself drawn to it. He liked it—liked its warmth, its suggestion of an inner peace.
Through his own enquiries he knew the Frasers were an old and distinguished family in the county, but the extravagance of James Fraser and his weakness for the gaming tables had frittered away most of his inheritance, leaving his sister to live on a virtual pittance at Bierlow Hall. His thoughts went back to the time he had observed Louisa in church the morning after seeing her at Vauxhall, when he had witnessed her misery for himself, strongly suspecting her brother’s reckless and utterly selfish behaviour to have been the cause.
As he stepped down from the carriage, Mrs Marsh, the elderly housekeeper, in a large white apron and white mob-cap, her hair hidden beneath the pouched crown, opened the door to see who was calling, becoming flustered and bobbing awkwardly on seeing the magnificent carriage and being confronted by such a formidable-looking gentleman. She was unused to opening the door to such distinguished visitors.
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