by Jane Ashford
Watching him move through the press at the edge of the ballroom, Verity saw no sign of his wound. Perhaps he held his arm a bit stiffly. She felt a thrill of secret knowledge. And no remorse whatsoever.
Mr. Rochford paused to speak to Olivia. From the expression on her friend’s face, Verity was sure that he received a saucy answer. He laughed, the picture of debonair assurance, and resumed his progress toward the card room.
Olivia surveyed the crowd, saw Verity, and came over to her. “I wish you very happy,” she said.
Verity realized that she wanted to reproach her friend for not visiting Mr. Rochford’s house. When Olivia had done exactly what she’d urged her to do—avoid a scandal.
“Is something wrong?” asked Olivia. “You aren’t still angry about my Rochford scheme, are you? I didn’t go.”
Verity almost said, “I know.”
“I was never going to,” her friend continued. “Not really, I think.”
“You think?” Verity had to smile.
“When it came down to it, of course not.” Olivia shrugged. “But that of course is rather dreary. I like to imagine a different sort of life. Wilder…unfettered.”
Verity did understand.
“Ah, here’s the lucky man,” Olivia said.
Randolph joined them with a graceful bow. “It’s a waltz,” he said to Verity. “May I have the honor?”
“If she’ll marry you, I expect she’ll dance with you,” Olivia said.
Verity gave him her hand, and they stepped into the waltz. “I must talk to you,” she said, not bothering with a preamble.
“And I you,” he said.
“Privately.” She didn’t intend to hash out their dilemma before the bulk of the haut ton. “Will you call tomorrow morning?”
He looked at the people surrounding them and nodded. “Tomorrow morning,” he echoed.
He seemed unusually serious, but having gained her point, she was satisfied. All would be revealed tomorrow. “Everyone is being unbearably smug about our engagement.”
“Well, they’ve known how it would be since we first sang together.”
Verity looked up and caught the twinkle in his blue eyes. “They’ve been saying that to you, too?”
“A great many people.”
“It’s as if they’re taking credit.”
“Indeed. It had nothing to do with us.”
She laughed, and with that, the complacent comments seemed far less annoying. What did they matter?
Verity became conscious of Randolph’s hand, warm on her back, of the strength of his fingers holding hers. Dancing with him was like floating around the floor; they moved to the music with an identical impulse. He smiled down at her, as if he was thinking the same thing. She’d wanted wild adventures, Verity thought. Last night on a daybed in a secret cottage had been wild. This hand she held had done such delicious things. Hers had run over his bare skin. With impunity. She’d been intoxicated with kisses. None of these smug people knew anything about that. And they never would. She smiled back.
She was smiling like a cat who’d found the cream pot, Randolph thought. Sly and…salacious? In that moment, he knew she was thinking of last night. She was back at Quinn’s, which took him there as well. Waltzing was pleasant, but he wished for so much more. Where their hands clasped, he ran his fingertips lightly over hers. Verity shivered in his arms, her blue-green eyes darkening with emotion. Without missing a step, Randolph pulled her closer. Her hand tightened on his shoulder. How he wanted her! To sweep her up and carry her off and let the archbishop go hang. But not to make her unhappy—that was the damnable crux of the matter.
Too soon, the dance ended, and he had to let her go. Worse, another fellow came up and claimed her for the next set, as if he had the right. It was all Randolph could do to watch her walk off with him.
He didn’t care to find another partner. Instead, he went to join his brothers by the wall. “Georgina’s always buzzing about like a dashed bee,” Sebastian was complaining. “Taking Emma to some party or ball. Or seeing what Hilda’s up to.”
“Flora’s as busy,” Robert replied. “On top of all else, she’s promoting a match between Wrentham and Miss Reynolds. Can’t see it myself. Did you hear about his idiotic stunt?” He snorted. “Riding through the park backward. He’s not a stripling just let loose on the town, for God’s sake.”
“Charles Wrentham?” asked Randolph, his attention diverted. “The fellow from Salbridge? Acted in the play?”
Robert nodded.
“He tried to run me through at Angelo’s a few weeks ago,” Randolph said.
“What?” Both his brothers stared at him.
“Why would he do that?” Sebastian asked.
“He just felt like skewering someone, I think. And anyone would do. That’s how it seemed to me anyway. We hardly exchanged two words.”
“Perhaps he’s run mad,” Robert said. “That would explain it. How did he do against you?”
Randolph gave him a sardonic look.
“Wretchedly, I daresay,” said Sebastian. “It’s hard to match Randolph with a foil.”
Randolph gave him a bow.
“A saber now… That’s another matter,” added his large military brother with a grin.
“You might be surprised.” Randolph wished he could tell them about pinking Rochford with his own saber.
“Wish you happy, by the way,” said Sebastian. “Forgot to say.”
“Yes, felicitations,” said Robert. “Miss Sinclair will be an ornament to your new parish.”
Randolph’s problems descended upon him once more. He wondered if Verity wanted to talk about their future tomorrow. What else? The feeling of failure gnawed at him again. With his lineage and education and abilities, his advancement in the church should have been practically assured. Would have been, if not for that dratted ram.
He hid a sigh from his brothers. He’d worked hard in his parish, and he’d done a good job. He knew that. He deserved recognition. Verity deserved…all the happiness he could give her, if not the moon and the stars. He hated the idea that he was going to disappoint her. He had nothing to be ashamed of, and yet he felt somehow that he did.
After the supper interval, as she stood near her mother and Mrs. Doran, Verity was suddenly flanked by two taller women.
“Verity,” said Lord Sebastian’s elegant blond wife. “We must call you Verity now.”
“And we are Flora and Georgina,” said Lord Robert’s keen-eyed spouse.
“Welcome to the ranks of Gresham daughters-in-law,” said Georgina.
“Sixth and last,” said Flora with a smile.
They took Verity’s arms and led her to a cluster of gilt chairs in the corner. She felt slightly hustled. “Is there an examination?” she asked as she sat down.
Georgina looked startled, but Flora laughed. “It ought to be the other way about. A ducal information booklet, perhaps. Do you know that people are supposed to call me Lady Robert now? Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?”
“It’s just a form of address,” said her companion.
“Yes, Georgina, you grew up among the nobility, and it seems quite natural to you. I did not.” Flora turned one hand palm upward. “And so it does not.” She snorted. “Lady Robert, as if I had no identity of my own. No name even.”
“What does Lord Robert think?” Verity wondered.
“Robert,” Flora corrected. “You may call him Robert. I so decree. For all the host of brothers.”
“Even Hightower?” asked Georgina dubiously.
“Well.” Flora hesitated. “Yes, of course. Nathaniel won’t mind.”
“It’s not that he’d mind.”
“No.” Flora shrugged, then nodded. “It just doesn’t seem quite right, I agree.” She turned back to Verity. “Hightower’s the oldest, you know, a
nd heir to the duke. He has a sort of…natural dignity.”
“So does Violet,” said Georgina.
“Yes. His wife,” Flora informed Verity.
There were so many of them. It was difficult to keep track. “Do you feel part of the family?” Verity asked them.
“Yes, indeed,” said Georgina. “The duke and duchess have been more than kind.”
But Flora made a face. “I worried, once upon a time, about acceptance. Now I struggle to keep my head above the…tribal waters.”
“You say the oddest things,” Georgina replied without judgment.
“I’m known for it,” Flora answered. “And if you knew what I was thinking…” She wiggled her dark eyebrows.
“You’ll put Verity off us.”
“I don’t think I will.” Flora surveyed Verity. “I was impressed when we visited the school together. Verity seems level-headed and intelligent and charitable.”
“Randolph chose her,” said Georgina. “Sebastian says he’s most discerning of them all. So she must have all kinds of good qualities.”
“I’m right here listening to you,” said Verity. She appreciated compliments, but it was strange to be talked about so frankly. She also felt that life was suddenly going very fast. Yesterday, she’d been plain Miss Sinclair, with a reasonable number of familiar connections. Now she was being propelled into another family—large, complicated, and inquisitive.
“Here’s the prettiest sight in the ballroom,” said a deep voice above them.
Verity looked up. The Gresham brothers had arrived, three tall, broad-shouldered men. They were quite a sight, standing together—blue-eyed, auburn-haired, very handsome. Verity rose along with her companions.
Sebastian held out a hand. “My dance,” he said to Georgina. “At long last.” He took her fingers possessively.
“Would you do me the honor?” Robert said to Verity, with a perfect bow. She accepted, and they moved to join the set that was forming. Randolph came behind them with Flora.
“So you and Randolph have progressed from singing to matrimony,” said Robert as they moved down the line in the country dance.
The wives had trusted in Randolph’s choice, Verity thought. Robert was another matter; she could hear it in his voice.
“You do sing sweetly together,” he added.
“Have you been assigned to evaluate me?” Verity asked.
“I’ve taken it upon myself,” he replied.
It seemed the entire Gresham clan spoke freely. Verity found that both refreshing and disconcerting. How far was too far?
“Randolph is a splendid fellow, you know. I should like to see him happy.”
“And you don’t think I’ll make him so?”
“He’s offered for you, and he usually knows what he’s doing. I just don’t get the sense…”
“What sense?” Verity asked when he trailed off.
“The one I got with my other brothers.”
“The one? I fear I don’t understand.” Verity felt insulted, and suddenly sad. “Is it some sort of arcane perception?”
“I don’t mean to offend you, Miss Sinclair.”
“Indeed, Robert. I was informed that I should call you Robert, now that we are to be one big happy family.”
“That sounds like Flora.”
“Flora, yes. Not Lady Robert.”
He smiled briefly. “I see that I have offended you. I beg your pardon. I’m not often clumsy.”
“Really?” Verity was furious, and not entirely certain why.
“You’re a bit like Flora, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know her well enough to judge,” Verity replied through clenched teeth.
“That’s a good sign,” her partner said, seemingly to himself. “Isn’t it?”
“I have no opinion on the matter.”
“But is Randolph like me?” He seemed to have abandoned conversation for inane musing.
“No,” said Verity. “He’s quite lucid.”
Robert looked at her. He appeared much struck, but he said only, “Ah.”
And then the dance, and the joust, were over.
Sixteen
The following morning, Randolph woke early. He’d dreamed of something he couldn’t quite remember, only that it had been disturbing. As he dressed, he wondered if it had to do with the fact that he longed to see Verity, and yet didn’t look forward to their conversation. Would all end between them as it had begun—with her rejection of a country cleric?
After breakfast, restless, he got out his lute and strummed the strings. He hadn’t practiced in a long while. He settled to try the tune that still ran in his head but never came out quite right.
After a few minutes, he was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Yes?” he called, a little irritated.
The door opened. Harris stood in the corridor in her somber black. This was unusual. His mother’s superior lady’s maid never sought him out. “Her Grace is ill,” she said.
“Mama?”
“She’s been ailing for some days. She wouldn’t say so, or let me send for the doctor. But her condition has become serious. And the duke is out.” Harris looked reproachful.
Randolph rose, setting the instrument aside. “I’ll come see her.”
“It would be better to send for the doctor,” Harris repeated.
Worried now, Randolph followed her to his mother’s room. The duchess lay in bed, unprecedented at this time of day. She was deathly pale. Sweat beaded the hair at her temples. She plucked at the coverlet as if it offended her. “You told Randolph, Harris?” she said. “Against my express orders?” She sounded peevish. Mama was never peevish. “I want to get up,” she added. But when she tried to sit, she wasn’t able. She fell back on the sheets as if half fainting.
A bolt of fear shot through Randolph. He’d never seen his mother really ill. Every other thought went out of his head. “I’ll send for Papa,” he told Harris, and rushed off to do so.
“And the doctor,” Harris called after him.
“Yes.”
The duke arrived first, but Dr. Loughton was practically on his heels. The latter, a wise and sensible man of sixty who’d treated the family for years, went up at once to examine the patient. When he came down later, he wore a grave expression. “I’m afraid this is quite serious. It appears to be typhoid fever.”
Randolph watched his father take in the news. He looked like a man who’d sustained a sudden, stunning blow. His own expression must be similar, Randolph thought, because that was exactly how he felt.
“Miss Harris tells me that the duchess has been feeling poorly for several days. Her weakness, headache, and fever are characteristic of the disease.”
“She told me she was tired,” said the duke. “She hates fusses.”
“As I know well,” replied the doctor, offering a brief, understanding smile.
“Tell us what to do.”
“She needs to rest. Not to ‘stop lazing about and get on with things.’”
Randolph could hear his mother saying these words.
“I’ll see to it.”
“Miss Harris says she hasn’t wanted to eat, but she must keep up her strength. Broth and soft foods. Barley water. Lemonade, whatever she will take. I’ll send over something for the headache.” He looked at them. And saw two men struggling with shock, Randolph thought.
“Nurses,” said his father.
Dr. Loughton nodded. “Miss Harris is determined to care for her, and I’ve given her detailed written instructions. But she’ll require help. I can recommend someone.”
“I think we’ll have plenty of volunteers,” the duke responded with an odd sort of proud pain.
A strange desperate fear surged through Randolph. “I’ll sit with her!” He ignored the doctor’s startled glance. “You must let me sit
with her, Papa!”
“Of course, Randolph.”
His easy agreement quieted Randolph. As did a brush of memory, explaining why he felt terrified even though it didn’t banish the feeling.
“I should warn you.” Dr. Loughton hesitated.
“Yes?”
His father’s voice was tight with anxiety. A stranger wouldn’t notice, but Randolph heard it plainly.
“Please tell us everything,” the duke added.
“She’ll get worse before she’s any better,” the physician replied. “The fever will go up and down, perhaps with a cough and bodily pains. It’s very likely that she’ll become delirious.”
“But Mama will recover,” Randolph blurted out. “She’s very strong. We’ll care for her, and she’ll recover.”
“I have every hope that she will.” Dr. Loughton paused, then added, “This disease commonly lasts for weeks and is singularly exhausting.”
The duke turned away, as if he didn’t want them to see his face. “Thank you, doctor,” he said.
“I’ll call twice a day,” the man replied. “Morning and afternoon. And whenever else you need me, of course. You need only send word.”
Randolph’s father nodded. Dr. Loughton took his leave.
“I must go to her,” the duke said. Now that their visitor was gone, fear was clear in his tone. “You’ll notify your brothers?”
Randolph suppressed his own worries in the face of his father’s obvious pain. “Of course, Papa.”
Rushing down to the library, glad to have a task, Randolph wrote brief notes to Robert and Sebastian. There was no need to go on and on; they’d call at once to hear the rest. His letters to Alan and Nathaniel and James—as if the latter could hear anytime soon—were a bit longer. But what was there to say, after all? Except that Mama, the center around which their family revolved, was very ill, and might not be herself for some time. Some limited time, Randolph thought fiercely as he finished the last letter. He’d take care of her. They all would. And then she’d recover, and the world would right itself again.
* * *
Verity was puzzled, then a bit irritated, when Randolph didn’t call as he’d promised. She waited all morning for him to arrive, or send a note of explanation at the least. She was afire with impatience to dispense with the archbishop problem. But Randolph never came. She nearly wrote to him, but then she remembered that he’d mentioned planning to attend the Garnetts’ party. She’d find him, and his explanation, there tonight.
