by Cheryl Holt
“That’s putting it mildly.” He shook his head with disgust. “Is your mother crazy?”
“She can be.” Mrs. Stewart hesitated, then forged on. “I’m curious about your amour with Mary. Were you fond of her?”
He might have denied a relationship, might have contended that Victoria had been incorrect, but he missed Mary, and he wasn’t about to act as if the liaison hadn’t occurred.
“Yes, I was. I was very fond of her.”
“Then I’m glad for you and for her. I don’t believe anyone was ever fond of her before.”
He shrugged, embarrassed again by her comments. Since she’d been blatant in her aversion, he hadn’t attempted to breach the distance between them, so he’d never previously seen this side of her.
He enjoyed it. She seemed to be a genuinely nice person, and she’d liked Mary.
“I have a question,” she said. It was her turn to look chagrinned.
“About what?”
“I had become cordial with Mr. Adair.”
“I’m not surprised; he always charms the ladies.”
“Since he left, it’s been positively dreary around here. We had intended to correspond, and he was supposed to provide me with his address, but he forgot. Might I impose on you to get it?”
“Yes. I’ll be sure to jot it down for you.”
“I appreciate it.”
“If you plan to contact him, though, you’ll need to write at once. He’s about to sail for Jamaica.”
“Yes, he told me he was.”
“He was anxious to start his adventure, so he’s leaving right away.”
“Do you think he’ll ever come back to England?”
“I hope so.”
Jordan pushed down the prospect of Paxton’s departure. What with all Jordan’s recent troubles, he couldn’t bear to consider Paxton’s journey, and he was furious at Paxton’s father for finally bribing his friend with an offer he couldn’t refuse.
If Jordan didn’t have Paxton as his companion, who would he have? No one else could stand him.
“Now I have a question for you,” he said, determined to change the subject. “It’s terribly indiscreet of me to inquire, but I’m going to anyway.”
“What is it?”
“What is your opinion of your mother’s cousin?”
“My mother’s cousin?”
“Yes.”
“My mother doesn’t have a cousin.”
“Yes, she does. Mary went to stay with her. I’m just wondering what sort of welcome she’ll receive.”
Before Mrs. Stewart could reply, Victoria returned, clapping her hands to get their attention.
“The Talbots have gone home, so let’s finish this, shall we?”
“Yes, let’s do,” Vicar Martin said.
He smiled, expecting everyone to smile back, but no one did.
Mrs. Stewart moved to the hearth, and Jordan studied her, confused by her statement. He wanted her to clarify what she’d meant, but he didn’t dare delay the ceremony to talk about his recent clandestine amour.
He walked over to the vicar, feeling as if he was gliding in slow motion.
As he stepped next to Felicity, she bristled.
“Mother told me about you and Mary,” she hissed as if Martin wasn’t three feet away and listening to her every word.
Jordan was grateful for Mrs. Stewart’s warning. He accepted the remark with equanimity. “Really?”
“I will never forgive you.”
“Why would it matter to me if I’m forgiven or not?”
Vicar Martin frowned and hastily searched for his spot in the prayer book.
“I’m only marrying you,” Felicity fumed, “because I’ll be a countess someday.”
“Yes, you are. Had you assumed it was for some other reason?”
“If Mother wasn’t making me, I’d wed a farmer before I’d have you.”
The vicar snapped his book closed. They all jumped.
“Miss Barnes,” he huffed, “there seems to be some disagreement between you and Lord Redvers. This is not the Middle Ages. I will not marry any woman against her will. Do you wish—of your own accord—to proceed or not?”
A lengthy silence dragged out. Felicity peered over at her mother, scowled intently, then said, “Of course I wish to proceed. I apologize for giving you the wrong impression.”
“What about you, Lord Redvers?” the minister queried.
“A dowry is a dowry. Get on with it.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Martin began to recite what had to be the fastest reading of the vows ever attempted, yet Jordan didn’t hear the phrases flowing by.
He kept pondering Mrs. Stewart’s comment—that Victoria didn’t have a cousin—and he was so rattled by the implications that he couldn’t focus.
What had he done to Mary? What had Victoria done?
“Do you, Jordan Edward Addington Penrose Winthrop Viscount Redvers, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Had Victoria tricked him? If she had, if he’d been duped, what had happened to Mary?
Eventually, he noticed that Vicar Martin had stopped speaking. Everyone was staring.
“Ahem . . .” Martin cleared his throat. “Lord Redvers, the vows are important. You must pay attention.”
“What did you ask me?” Jordan inquired.
“I asked if you take Miss Barnes to be your lawfully wedded wife.”
Jordan gaped at Felicity as if she had two heads.
“The question isn’t that difficult, Redvers,” Victoria interjected. “Just say yes.”
Jordan looked at Mrs. Stewart. “You were telling me something right before the ceremony started.”
“About what?”
“About your mother’s cousin.”
“My mother doesn’t have a cousin. If she told you that’s where Mary is, she was lying.”
“Are you certain?”
“Mary went to London—by herself.”
He was dumbstruck at the news.
“But your mother and I had it all arranged.”
“I talked to Mary as she was leaving. Mother had ordered her off the property, and she was traveling to London, to try to find a job.”
“Cassandra!” Victoria barked. “That’s enough!”
Mrs. Stewart ignored her. “I didn’t think you’d want her going to London on her own, and I begged her to wait, so we could discuss it with you, but she wouldn’t—”
“Where is she?” Jordan demanded, advancing on Victoria.
“I have no idea,” Victoria calmly answered. “May we get back to the task at hand?”
“Where is she?” Jordan shouted.
“Lord Redvers,” she stated, “you are about to marry my daughter. Is there some reason you’re standing in my parlor and chatting about another woman?”
“Tell me where she is, or I’m walking out of here.”
“Mother!” Felicity wailed.
“You are at the end of your wedding,” Victoria continued. “You are about to make the final commitment that will bind you to Felicity forever. I insist that you concentrate on the ceremony and not your prior mistress.”
“Mrs. Barnes!” the vicar scolded. “Remember yourself. Please.”
“I’m sorry, Vicar Martin,” she said, “but he’s being foolish, and I’m weary of his antics.”
Jordan stared at Felicity, at her mother. What was he doing? Why had he chosen Felicity and a lifetime of misery? He’d assumed he could go through with the match, but why would he? He’d rather live in poverty, would rather forage on the streets than face Felicity over the breakfast table every morning. All the money in the world wasn’t sufficient to make it palatable.
He’d convinced himself that it was what he wanted, but it wasn’t. Mary was what he wanted. Mary, who’d been kind to him. Mary, who’d believed he was wonderful. Mary, who had loved him when he didn’t deserve to be loved.
A frisson of fear slithered down his spine.
“I don’t want your daughter’s fortune,” he announced. “Give it to some other poor sap who’s stupid enough to tolerate her.”
He started out, and Felicity howled, “Mother, he can’t do that to me, can he?”
Victoria stepped into his path, blocking his retreat.
“If you depart this room,” she threatened, “the engagement is terminated. If you slink back next week or next month, we won’t receive you.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
“Are you listening to me, Redvers? Felicity won’t take you back. I won’t let her, so the dowry will be lost to you.”
She appeared very smug, presuming she had coerced him yet again. And why wouldn’t she be confident?
He’d proven over and over that he would prostitute himself for cash, but in the nick of time, he’d come to his senses. He’d realized that—as Mary had always said—there were some things more important than money.
Mary was more important. A life with Mary was more important.
He picked up Victoria, setting her to the side, and he kept on.
“Redvers!” she shrieked. “You will not cry off. You will not go!”
“Mother!” Felicity howled again. “Stop him!”
“Lord Redvers,” Mrs. Stewart called, the only voice in the group that could get him to halt and turn around.
“Yes, Mrs. Stewart, what is it?”
“Don’t forget to leave me that address.” She grinned. “And have Mary write to me, will you? As opposed to the other members of my family, I’m worried sick about her.”
“I’ll definitely leave that address, Mrs. Stewart, and I’ll have Mary drop you a note—the moment I find her.” He glared at Victoria. “You had better pray that I locate her soon and that she’s all right. If she’s suffered any harm, I’ll take it out of your hide.”
He whirled away and raced up the stairs to pack his bags.
Chapter 21
“ARE you sure about this?”
“Yes. Mrs. Monroe is a friend of mine. She’ll be glad to assist you.”
Mary stared at Lauretta Bainbridge, knowing there was a scheme in the works but unable to figure out what it was. Mrs. Bainbridge was being extremely obliging even though she possessed no cooperative traits.
Mr. Adair had slept most of the way to London and debarked the carriage shortly after they’d arrived. When he’d left them, he’d assumed Mrs. Bainbridge was dropping Mary at the Carlyle Hotel, which he’d mentioned as an excellent spot to spend the night. But as soon as he’d gone, Mrs. Bainbridge had suggested an alternative that was less expensive.
She had a friend, a Mrs. Monroe, who rented rooms in her home, and with cost being a factor, Mary had agreed to tour the establishment. She was uncomfortable with accepting lodging from a person she’d never met, and she didn’t want to impose, but Mrs. Bainbridge had insisted, and now, Mary was wondering if she shouldn’t have followed Mr. Adair’s original advice.
She was leery of Mrs. Bainbridge and worried that Mr. Adair might have had the better idea.
For some reason, Mrs. Bainbridge had been cordial and chatty the entire trip.
She made London sound like a grand lark, akin to a circus or an unending fair where people were happy and rich and busy and glamorous.
Mary had tried to persuade herself that she’d be fine, but as they’d approached the outskirts, then plunged into the dirty, crammed streets, she’d grown increasingly unnerved. Nothing could have prepared her for the noise, the crowds, the smells, and the general disarray.
She was very frightened, wishing she hadn’t come, but what else could she have done?
She glanced out the carriage window, seeing that they were parked in front of Mrs. Monroe’s house. It was three stories high, with black shutters and flower boxes. Rosebushes bloomed along the walk, and at viewing the reputable condition, Mary’s fears calmed somewhat.
If Monroe was courteous and civil, the matter of finding a place to stay would be easily accomplished, and in light of all that had occurred, the prospect was soothing. However, it seemed too good to be true, and she didn’t trust Mrs. Bainbridge, not being able to imagine why Mrs. Bainbridge would trouble herself on Mary’s behalf.
Maybe Mrs. Bainbridge was simply humored to see Mary brought so low, or maybe she enjoyed rescuing Mary. If the situation worked out, Mary would owe Mrs. Bainbridge a huge debt of gratitude that Mrs. Bainbridge would collect in any number of ways.
“Why would Mrs. Monroe help me?” Mary asked.
“She regularly takes in women who come to London from the country. Years ago, she came herself—without a penny in her pocket. She knows how scary it can be.”
“That’s kind of her.”
“Yes, it’s very kind.”
Mary glanced out again. “It looks as if she’s done well for herself.”
“She definitely has.”
“How is she earning her income? It can’t just be from collecting rent.”
“She was married to a wealthy fellow, and when he passed away, she inherited the house. Now her boarders chip in. It’s a beneficial arrangement for everyone.” Mrs. Bainbridge smiled, appearing amiable and empathetic, but Mary refused to take her word for anything.
Mary would investigate for herself, would speak to Mrs. Monroe and see what sort of individual she was. If the circumstances weren’t as Mrs. Bainbridge had claimed, Mary would simply thank Mrs. Monroe and move on.
The carriage door was opened and the step lowered. Mrs. Bainbridge climbed out and swept inside. Mary followed, relieved to be greeted by a footman, which was a sign of normalcy.
He showed them to a secluded parlor at the rear of the residence. As they strolled through, Mary noted the beautiful paintings on the walls, the luxurious rugs on the floors. The furnishings were expensive, tasteful, and clean.
She sat on a sofa while Mrs. Bainbridge went to have a private conversation with Mrs. Monroe.
After she left, it was very quiet, and Mary fidgeted. She was tired and drained, and she felt very cold, as if her blood had turned to ice. She couldn’t get warm.
Mrs. Bainbridge was gone for ages, and Mary’s anxiety flared. What was taking so long? What if Mrs. Monroe didn’t want Mary? If that was the case, Mary would die of humiliation.
She’d just decided to give up on Mrs. Bainbridge, to leave and locate an inn for the night, when Mrs. Bainbridge entered, accompanied by a blond woman who was introduced as Mrs. Monroe.
She was older than Mary, probably thirty-five or forty. With big blue eyes and a rounded figure, she resembled Mrs. Bainbridge in sophistication and style. She was very polished, very elegant, and it was easy to understand why they were friends.
Mrs. Monroe ordered tea, then settled herself in a chair across from Mary.
“What brings you to London, Miss Barnes?” Mrs. Monroe inquired.
Mary wasn’t sure what to say. She wasn’t about to admit that she’d been disowned and disavowed.
“I grew up at an estate in the country.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bainbridge told me about it: Barnes Manor. It must have been lovely.”
“It was, but there was nothing for me there. I don’t have a dowry, so I could never marry. I was living with my stepmother, and it was . . . difficult.”
“Oh, I can imagine,” Mrs. Monroe commiserated. She studied Mary with a keen intensity. “You have no family?”
“No.”
“No one to miss you? No one to care if something should happen?”
Mary shook her head, as tears welled into her eyes. How could her life have come to such a horrid fork in the road?
“You poor dear.” Mrs. Monroe reached over and consolingly patted Mary’s hand. “Yours is the saddest story I’ve ever heard. To be all alone in the world! It doesn’t bear contemplating.”
A maid rolled in the tea cart, and they were silent as Mrs
. Monroe poured and offered Mary a cup.
Mary drank it down, and Mrs. Monroe poured her a second serving. Mary was glad for the warmth of the beverage, for the distraction it provided. It gave her a moment to compose herself, to tamp down any maudlin sentiment.
She would not mourn her losses! She would not feel sorry for herself! What had occurred couldn’t be changed, and there was no use complaining.
“Would you like to stay with me, Miss Barnes?” Mrs. Monroe asked. “I have a room available. There’s no need for you to traipse about London, hunting for a place.”
“You’re very kind.”
“I try to be helpful. I was once in dire straits—as you are. I wouldn’t want anyone to suffer as I did.”
“It has been a bit overwhelming.”
“I’ll be worried sick if you go off on your own.”
Mary stared at her; the woman seemed sincere.
Why not? a voice whispered. It was the simplest solution.
Suddenly, she felt dizzy and overheated, and she fanned herself with her napkin.
“Is it hot in here?”
“No,” Mrs. Monroe answered. “Perhaps it’s stress from the journey.”
“Perhaps.”
Mary yawned. “I beg your pardon,” she said.
“It’s quite all right. Would you like more tea? If your energy is flagging, it might enliven you.”
Mary gazed at Mrs. Monroe, but she looked blurry, as if she was no longer solid. Her disorientation grew more peculiar by the minute, and vaguely, she noted that Mrs. Bainbridge and Mrs. Monroe hadn’t drunk any of the tea.
Only Mary had.
Mrs. Monroe filled Mary’s cup again, and though Mary meant to have more, her arms must have weighed a hundred pounds. She couldn’t lift them, so Mrs. Monroe leaned over and pressed Mary’s cup to her mouth, holding it till Mary had swallowed down the entire amount.
Mrs. Monroe relaxed in her chair, she and Mrs. Bainbridge watching Mary.
Mary wanted to tell them that she was ill, that she didn’t wish to stay after all, but she was too lethargic to speak up.
Gradually, she dozed off, her body toppling sideways onto the sofa, and as she drifted away, Mrs. Monroe said, “That was easy.”
