by Cheryl Holt
He cut her off. “It’s about many, many things, Veronica, but Michael Fenwick isn’t on the list. Goodbye.”
He rudely shoved her away then marched off. She would have called to him, but Mr. Addington was at the library door. He was watching her, his expression grumpy and condemning. She straightened and walked toward him.
“Hello, Mr. Addington. It’s wonderful to see you again.”
He didn’t reply, but stepped out and shut the door behind her with a determined click. She whirled to find Benjamin seated at his desk, and she hurried over, eager to appear pleasant and agreeable. A difficult conversation was about to ensue, and she wouldn’t allow it to descend into bickering and insults.
“Benjamin, it’s wonderful to see you too. It’s been...days.”
She sat in the chair across from him and fussed with her skirt, struggling to tamp down her nerves.
“I assume you’re here to cry off,” he said without preamble.
“Ah...ah...”
“It’s all right. Just say so. I’ve been expecting you.”
She scowled ferociously. She’d figured she would ease them into the topic then present herself in the best light, so she wound up being viewed as the injured party.
And she was the injured party. She was to have been a countess, and he could have protested Soloman Grey’s acceptance of the boy as Lord Lyndon. But no. He’d blithely surrendered without a fight. Some soldier he was!
“I thought we should confer over what occurred,” she carefully stated.
“I don’t believe there’s any issue for us to hash out.”
“No issue? I was supposed to be a countess through my marriage.”
“You have to realize it won’t happen now.”
“No, it won’t so my parents and I have been feeling a bit cheated.”
“Cheated? Really?” He laughed in a manner she didn’t like.
“You won’t be able to keep your end of the bargain.”
“No, I won’t. Tell me about you and Michael Fenwick.”
She froze, her mind frantically racing with possible responses. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t pretend to be confused.”
“He’s a friend of Wesley’s.”
“He used to be, but it’s clear he’s become quite a friend to you too.”
“Honestly, Benjamin, you seem to be insinuating immoral behavior by me.”
“I’m not—yet. Provide me with your version of it, and we’ll see how I proceed.”
“I met him with Wesley, and I found him to be very charming.”
“Yes,” Benjamin muttered, “he’s definitely charming. Were you aware that he and I are closely acquainted too?”
“How nice,” she blandly said.
“He’s alluded to your character a few times as if he’s been trying to get me to notice some facets that might bother me.”
“I have no idea why he would. He’s full of mischief. Perhaps he’s playing tricks.” Her cheeks flushed bright red, and she glanced away, too intimidated to hold his steady gaze.
“You know what I think, Veronica?”
“No, what?”
“I think you’re young and foolish, and Michael Fenwick is a very dashing, very amusing sort of boy. Shall I warn your father about him? How far along is your affair?”
She bristled with false outrage. “We’re not having an affair!”
“Are you hoping—once you’re shed of me—that you can attach yourself to Fenwick?”
“Don’t be absurd,” she claimed, but she pondered it constantly. If she couldn’t be a countess, wouldn’t it be glamorously fun to have such a handsome, merry spouse? Every girl in London would be green with envy.
It didn’t matter that he had no money. She had plenty—if she could convince her father to hand it over to him. That was the rub. She didn’t suppose her father would ever deem Michael to be appropriate, and Veronica couldn’t imagine being poor. A gorgeous husband was all well and good, but a rich, gorgeous husband was even better.
“I’m not being absurd,” he told her, “and if marriage to Fenwick is your ploy, I will speak to your father. Michael Fenwick is not the type of suitor your parents should ever permit to court you.”
“Since I’m crying off, Benjamin Grey, my future plans are none of your business.”
“I also am persuaded that—in light of your misconduct with Fenwick—you are not ready to be a wife.”
“As if you know anything about me!” she scoffed.
“We have been engaged for a year, and our wedding was a few weeks away. Yet you disgraced yourself with another man.”
“I didn’t disgrace myself!”
“Do you think I never talk to my servants at Grey Manor? Do you think they never correspond with me? You met privately there with Fenwick.”
“So what if I did?” she hotly retorted.
“So what indeed?” he said.
The question hung between them, her cheeks flaring an even hotter shade of red. They caustically stared, and finally she pushed herself to her feet. “This appointment is over.”
“Thank God,” he muttered.
She took off her engagement ring and laid it on the desk. “I consider our betrothal to be severed.”
“I consider it severed too, Veronica, but there is one condition.”
“A condition!” she huffed.
“I will let you spread any story you choose about why we separated.”
“I intend to.”
“You may paint me into any kind of villain you wish, but you are not mature enough to be a bride. I demand you leave London for the next year.”
“Leave...London? I won’t.” She actually stamped her foot like a spoiled toddler.
“If you don’t retire to the country where you can reflect on what it means to be a loyal wife, I will disseminate rumors about you and Fenwick—so you’ll never be able to marry.”
“You wouldn’t!” she gasped.
“I would for I’m sure you will immediately begin searching for a lofty husband. I’m not about to be silent and have you betray another fiancé as you betrayed me.”
“I didn’t betray you!”
“I’ll ask Michael Fenwick. We’ll see what he has to say.”
She blanched. She couldn’t predict what Michael might say about her, but she blustered, “Michael will provide no negative comments about me.”
He ignored her remark. “I will expect an official announcement in the newspaper tomorrow that our betrothal is ended.”
“Trust me. Word will go out the minute I’m home.”
“Then I will expect to hear that you are devastated by our split and have left for your father’s country house where you will remain out of the London social whirl.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I will head to my club and start gossiping about you. How stellar is your reputation, Veronica? Will it survive a slew of lurid innuendo?”
She yearned to burst into tears, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, she spat, “You, Benjamin Grey, are no gentleman.”
“No, I’m not.”
He grinned, and she groaned with frustration and stomped out. As she went, she grabbed an expensive vase and smashed it on the floor. She recognized it was a juvenile act and unfortunately it didn’t make her feel any better.
“YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE this place. Do you understand?”
Lydia stared up at Captain Grey, and she had a serene smile on her face.
“Yes, I understand.”
“You will never be freed. If you decide later that you wish you hadn’t agreed, you can’t change your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind,” Lydia said.
She gazed down the convent’s hall, the dark bricks looking cool and dank, muffling any sound so it was quiet and peaceful which was the way she liked things to be. No upheaval. No conflict. No chaos or turmoil.
“You could have been executed,” Captain Grey pointed out.
“I know
.”
“It was Lord Lyndon’s specific request that you not be. His intervention saved your life.”
“Isn’t he kind?”
She maintained her placid expression even though she didn’t think the little brat was kind at all, but she would never say so aloud. She was desperate to stay at the convent, to immerse herself in the stable routines and orderly habits of the nuns. Every day would be exactly like the previous day.
“If you ever cause any trouble,” Captain Grey said, “I’ll be notified.”
“Why would I cause trouble, Captain? I’m so glad to be here.”
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “If you misbehave, Lydia, you’ll be taken to London and hanged. Tell me you understand. I keep asking you, but I’m not certain you do.”
“You’ve been very clear, Captain. You don’t have to constantly explain.”
“You will be here forever. I realize you’re content now, but in the coming years you may regret your choice.”
“I won’t regret it.”
“Lord Lyndon paid your fees so you can remain.”
“He’s been very generous.”
“Mr. Boswell is incensed and feels it is a false ending. He feels betrayed—by you and Lord Lyndon. He’d like you to suffer the ultimate penalty.”
“I have always worked to please Mr. Boswell. I’m sad to learn he’s angry with me.”
Captain Grey studied her, and it was obvious he thought she was addled, that she was confused about where she was and what she’d accepted as her punishment, but she fully grasped the circumstances. She was with the Sisters of Mercy in Scotland, and she would live out the rest of her life among the nuns.
When her options had been a quick hanging in London or being locked away in Scotland, it had been easy to select the proper path.
“Don’t forget the rules you are to follow,” he said. “You are not to ever contact your sister or brother.”
She scowled. “Why would I?”
“You may not correspond with Peggy Jones.”
The traitor! “I would never want to.”
“And you most definitely should never try to contact Lord Lyndon.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Should you have a letter snuck out and posted to any of them, you will be treated harshly. Lord Lyndon’s guardian would deem you to have broken your word.”
“You needn’t worry, Captain. I will be a model prisoner.”
A nun approached. “You’re not a prisoner, dear. Everyone here is equal before the Lord.”
“Well most everyone here is equal,” the Captain scoffed, “but I’ll check with you in a few months. After you’ve lived with her for a while, we’ll see what sort of opinion you hold.”
Lydia struggled to appear calm and cordial. “I will be so friendly and helpful that my new sisters will love me.”
“I hope so,” he replied. “Your last sister knew you a bit better. She’s probably a more accurate judge.”
“I will never upset anyone,” she insisted.
“Good, because your other fate is a swift execution, Lydia. It’s hanging by the neck until dead.”
He spun to go, and for a moment she panicked. Once he left, she’d be cut off from the outside world. Could she bear it?
Then she remembered there was naught to lament or miss. With Mr. Boswell revoking his support, she would have had to throw herself on Annabel’s mercy, but she wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it.
Still though, a myriad of frantic comments flew through her mind. Maybe she should send her final regards to Annabel. Or maybe she should apologize for the tragedy she’d instigated, for the years she’d stolen from Lord Lyndon, but Lord Lyndon had simply been a means to an end. She’d always put herself and her own security first. Who could blame a woman for that?
She wasn’t sorry for any of her actions.
Captain Grey walked under the heavy stone gate, and it clanged shut behind him. The nun hurried to lay a brace across it so it couldn’t be opened except by someone who knew how.
“Let’s go, Mrs. Boswell,” the nun said. “I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”
“Oh, you’re not to call me Mrs. Boswell,” Lydia told her. “My father-in-law took the name away from me. I’m not to use it ever again.”
“What should we call you then?”
“Lydia Fenwick. It’s just Lydia Fenwick from now on.”
“THE HORSE’S ASS.”
Annabel wadded up the letter from Benjamin Grey and tossed it in the fire. She watched until it had dwindled to ash.
She was aware that Caleb had been retrieved from Mr. Boswell without incident. A messenger had stopped by to notify her, but he’d provided no other information so she had no idea what had actually occurred.
She’d figured Benjamin would visit, that he’d bring Caleb to her so she could hear about his adventure, but he hadn’t. She’d grown tired of waiting so she’d brazenly stopped by his home twice but both times he’d been away on business.
The Grey clan was likely together either at Grey Manor or Lyndon Hall, and she’d been about to ride to Lyndon Hall, to knock on the door and demand to see Caleb, when she’d received the cold, cruel letter from Captain Grey.
In callous, impersonal terms, he’d thanked her for her assistance in locating Caleb then he’d bluntly apprised her she wouldn’t be allowed any further contact.
Soloman Grey wanted Caleb to have a clean and complete break from Annabel and Michael. He claimed no relationship was possible and Caleb needed to bond with his real family. As if Annabel and Michael represented some sort of unreal family! As if the Greys were the highest standard in family. The bastard!
“You couldn’t have expected anything else from him,” Peggy said.
“No, I don’t suppose I could.”
“You were very clear that you wouldn’t ally yourself with him.”
Annabel threw up her hands. “Why does everyone make it sound as if I’m a shrew simply because I wouldn’t be his mistress?”
“It might not have been so bad.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I’m not chastising you. I’m merely pointing out why you don’t have a place with him. Or Caleb. He’s not your nephew, and you’re not his aunt.”
“Just because that horrid Soloman Grey insists we’re not kin, it doesn’t mean we’re not. I’d like to hear Caleb’s opinion about it.”
She slammed the lid on her traveling trunk and plopped down on it, her elbows on her thighs.
Ever since she’d met Captain Grey, she’d been pining away like a foolish schoolgirl. First, she’d assumed he’d fall in love with her. Wrong. Then she’d dreamed he’d forsake his fussy, aristocratic fiancée and wed Annabel instead. Wrong! Then she’d been certain he’d realize he couldn’t live without Annabel, that he couldn’t give her up. Wrong.
All she’d gotten out of the debacle was a frosty letter and the loss of her only nephew.
She felt as if Captain Grey had yanked her heart out of her chest and stomped on it. She was constantly dejected and weepy, and she still didn’t know if he’d left her with child. If he had, she might finally have a chance to use the small pistol she kept in her skirt.
“Why are you so despondent, Miss Annabel?” Peggy came over and rubbed a soothing palm on Annabel’s back.
“I loved him,” she pathetically admitted.
“Of course you did.”
“I thought he was different. I thought he loved me too.”
Annabel had shared every sordid detail of the affair with Peggy, and Peggy had been very philosophical about it. She shrugged. “A man in his position is free to love, but he’s not free to act on it.”
“Except to pay me for services rendered,” Annabel grumbled. “What if I’m increasing, Peggy? What then?”
“Then...we’ll find a village in the country, claim you’re a widow, and you’ll have a baby. We’ll raise him in a happy home.” She pursed her lips. “I’d like
to help raise a happy boy once in my life. I’d like to see if I could make it happen.”
Peggy squeezed Annabel’s shoulder, and Annabel was desperately glad for her support.
Thanks to Caleb, Lydia had been sent to a cloistered convent in Scotland and would never be allowed out. Also thanks to Caleb, Peggy wouldn’t be punished. Apparently, he’d been quite insistent about it so Annabel would have Peggy as her own companion. Peggy was blossoming under the arrangement, being eager to experience Annabel’s wilder way of carrying on.
“Are you ready to leave, Miss Annabel?” Peggy asked.
“Yes.”
They were moving out of the house she’d rented for the prior six months. She never usually remained anywhere longer than that. It was a habit she’d adopted from her father. She never had to worry about a creditor chasing her down, but she couldn’t ever predict who might be searching for Michael when he didn’t want to be found. A spurned paramour? A cuckolded husband?
It was always best to depart before trouble snuck up on her.
That very morning, Michael had gone into hiding, believing Captain Grey might be hunting for him. He definitely expected violence to follow any encounter. Nor was he keen to bump into Veronica Mason—or her father. So he’d left.
It was late October so the holidays would quickly arrive. Michael had wrangled invitations to four house parties where he could spend the winter gambling.
They would start over again while loafing in the fancy mansions Annabel relished. She would don her sultriest gowns and distract the male guests in order to help him win, but while she was doing it, she would be pampered like a queen, her every whim indulged. It would take some of the sting out of Captain Grey’s repudiation.
Just once though, she wished she didn’t have to move on or stay with strangers. She wished she had a beautiful mansion of her own, that she could have Michael and Caleb with her for Christmas. It wasn’t such an outlandish notion.
“I don’t care what Soloman Grey says,” she groused. “I’ll devise a secret method to correspond with Caleb. Perhaps we’ll bribe a servant at Lyndon House.”
“That’s a fine idea. You could flirt with a footman. I’m sure you’d easily convince him to aid you.”
