by Mary Balogh
“Devil take it!” the earl said irritably, pulling a chair out from the table and plumping himself down onto it none too elegantly. “I would set a light to Brookes's with m'own hands today, and stand around to watch it burn to the ground too, if it were not somewhat akin to shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted. What now?”
Ferdinand looked assessingly at him.
Viola felt horribly exposed as she approached the front doors of Dudley House on Grosvenor Square. She was terrified that they would open and the duchess would step out—or that the duchess would be looking out through one of the many windows that overlooked the square. After she had lifted the knocker and let it fall against the door, she was afraid the duchess might be in the hall.
A very superior-looking butler opened the door. His eyes alit on her and then went beyond her to note that there was no carriage and no companion, not even a maid. He looked back at her.
“I wish to see his grace,” she said. She felt as breathless as if she had run a mile uphill. Her knees were unsteady.
The butler raised his eyebrows and looked at her as if she were a little lower on the social scale than a worm. Viola had realized, of course, that the very strong chance the duke was away from home so close to the middle of the day was not the least of her worries.
“Kindly inform him that Lilian Talbot wishes to speak with him,” she said, holding his gaze with a confidence she did not feel. She reminded herself that she was still wearing the clothes she had worn for the drive in the park. They were the clothes of a lady, the clothes Viola Thornhill of Pinewood Manor had worn for afternoon visits.
“I believe,” she said, “he will agree to see me.”
“Step inside,” the butler said, after such a lengthy pause that she feared any moment to have the door slammed in her face. “Wait here.”
She had hoped he would show her into a room to wait. At any moment one of the doors that lined the hall might open to reveal the duchess. Or she might come down the grand staircase that the butler was now ascending. Viola stood just inside the front doors with one silent liveried footman for company. She stood there for what felt like an hour at the very least but was perhaps five minutes. Then the butler came back downstairs.
“This way,” he said as frigidly as he had spoken before. He opened a door to her right, and she stepped into what was obviously a reception room—a square, elegant apartment with chairs arranged about the walls. “His grace will be with you soon.” The door closed.
Another five minutes passed before he came. Viola thought a dozen times at least of bolting, but she had come this far. She would see it through to the end. If the Duke of Tresham was the man she thought he was, he would agree to her suggestion. Then the door opened again, and she turned from the window.
She felt a strange shock as soon as he stepped into the room. He was as austere, as forbidding, as… frightening as he had been at Pinewood. Yet he was holding a tiny baby. The child was against his shoulder, making fussing noises and sucking loudly on one fist. The duke was patting its back with one long-fingered hand.
“Miss… Talbot?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
She curtsied and lifted her chin. She would not be cowed. “Yes, your grace.”
“And how may I be of service to you?” he asked her.
“I have a proposition to make to you,” she said.
“Indeed?” His voice was soft, but all her insides jerked with alarm.
“It is not what you think,” she said hastily.
“Am I to feel flattered or… shattered?” he asked her. He cupped his hand over the back of the baby's head when the child fussed in an obvious attempt to find a more comfortable position. There was gentleness in that hand, she thought. But there was none whatsoever in his face.
“I do not know,” she said, “if you are aware that Lord Ferdinand Dudley has restored Pinewood Manor to me. Or that he has offered me marriage.”
His eyebrows rose again. “But do I need to be aware?” he asked her. “My brother is seven-and-twenty, Miss… Talbot.”
She hesitated before continuing. “And I do not know,” she said, “if you are aware that the duchess and Lady Heyward called upon my mother this morning and then took me driving in the park. Or that the duchess has invited my mother and me to tea here tomorrow. I do not wish to cause any trouble for them,” she added.
Two of his long fingers were rubbing lightly over the baby's neck. “You need not fear,” he said. “I do not make a habit of taking a whip to my wife. And my sister is Lord Heyward's responsibility.”
“I am aware,” she said, “that my presence in London can be nothing but an embarrassment to you.”
“Are you?” he said.
“I might have been seen in your barouche this morning,” she said. “I might have been seen coming here. I might be seen tomorrow when I come with my mother. And recognized.”
He appeared to consider for a moment. “Unless you wear a mask,” he agreed, “I suppose that is a distinct possibility.”
“I am prepared to go back to Pinewood,” she said. “I am prepared to live there for the rest of my life and repel any attempt Lord Ferdinand may make to write to me or to see me there. This I will swear to—in writing, if you will.”
His stare was as black as his brother's, she thought during the silent moments that followed. No, blacker. For Ferdinand's stare always gave evidence of some emotion behind it. This man seemed as cold as death.
“This is extremely magnanimous of you,” he said at last. “I assume there is a condition attached? How much, Miss Talbot? I suppose you are aware that I am one of the wealthiest men in England?”
She named the sum baldly, without any explanation or apology.
He strolled farther into the room and turned half away from her. The baby—its eyes were blue—stared sleepily at her. The neck-rubbing was putting it to sleep.
“Apparently,” the duke said, “you do not realize how wealthy, Miss Talbot. You might have asked for considerably more. But it is too late now, is it not?”
“It is a loan I ask for,” she said. “I will pay you back. With interest.”
He swung around to look at her again, and for the first time his eyes looked less than opaque. She had sparked his interest, it seemed.
“In that case,” he said, “I am ensuring the respectability of my name and my family at remarkably small cost. You surprise me.”
“But you must do something else for me,” she said.
“Ah.” He tipped his head to one side to note that his child was sleeping. Then he looked back at Viola. “Yes, I am sure there is. Proceed.”
“The money is to be used in payment of a debt,” she said. “I want you to pay it for me—in person. I want you to get a receipt stating that the debt has been paid in full and that there are no others. I want you to send me a copy at the White Horse Inn, signed by both you and him.”
“Who?” His eyebrows were raised again.
“Daniel Kirby,” she said. “Do you know him? I can give you his direction.”
“Please do.” He spoke softly. “Why, if I am permitted to ask, can you not pay him yourself if I give you the money?”
She hesitated. “It will not be enough,” she explained. “He will discover other unpaid bills or he will claim that I was mistaken about the interest rate. If you go to him, the amount will be right. You are a powerful man.”
He stared at her for a long time while his child slumbered peacefully against his shoulder.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I believe I am.”
“You will do it?” she asked him.
“I will do it.”
She closed her eyes. She had not really expected him to agree. She had not been sure if she would be more relieved or disappointed if he would not. She was still not sure. She had not yet permitted herself to look ahead to the rest of her life, when she must keep her side of their bargain.
“I will wait for that receipt to be delivered to my uncle's inn
, then,” she said after giving him Daniel Kirby's address. “Do you wish to say now, your grace, in what installments you will expect the loan to be repaid? And what interest will be acceptable to you? Shall I sign something now?”
“I think that will be unnecessary, Miss Talbot,” he said. “I am sure I can trust you to repay your debt in a timely manner. I know where you may be reached at any time during the rest of your life, after all, do I not? And I am, as you observed a short while ago, a powerful man.”
She shivered.
“Yes. Thank you,” she said. “I will leave for Pinewood on the next stagecoach after the receipt has been delivered into my hands.”
“I am sure you will,” he said.
She hurried across the room and opened the door. The butler was in the hall. He opened the front doors, and a few moments later she was out on the steps, gulping in fresh air. It had been so very easy.
She had just been saved from what had appeared to be an unavoidable future.
Mama and Uncle Wesley had been saved.
So had Claire.
She hurried out of the square, her head down, the warmth of bright sunlight soaking into her. Why did life still appear bleaker than bleak? Why was she cold through to her very soul?
The Duchess of Tresham looked around the open door of the reception room before stepping inside.
“She has gone?” she asked unnecessarily. “Why did she come alone and ask to speak with you, Jocelyn? Why did she use a false name?” The duchess had been looking out through the nursery window earlier while nursing the baby and had observed the arrival of Viola Thornhill. She had remarked on it to her husband, who had been reading their elder son a story.
“Lilian Talbot was her working name,” he said.
“Oh.” She frowned.
“She has persuaded me,” he said, “to pay her off so that she will go back to Pinewood and never be seen or heard from again.”
“And you agreed ?”
“Ah, but it is only a loan, you see,” he said. “We will not be permanently impoverished, Jane. She is to pay me back.”
“She thinks this is what is best for Ferdinand?” she asked. “How foolishly noble.”
“She did apologize for letting me know that you and Angeline took her driving in the park this morning,” he said. “But I promised not to whip you, you will be relieved to know.”
“Jocelyn!” She tipped her head to one side. “You have been terrifying the poor lady. You are not serious about this, are you? You are not going to be odious and break Ferdinand's heart?”
“It is just the effect I have on people, you see,” he said. “You are the only one who has ever defied me, Jane. I married you so that you would be forced to obey me, but we both know how successful I have been at that.”
She smiled with amusement despite herself. “I see that Christopher is asleep,” she said. “How do you do it, Jocelyn? I resent it. I am his mother, but he does nothing except squirm and wail when I try to rock him to sleep.”
“He is wise enough to understand that he can expect no meal from me, you see,” he said. “There is nothing else to alleviate his boredom than to nod off. Dudleys are never so foolish as to waste negative energy. They merely fall asleep and store it up for future mayhem. Christopher is going to be more of a handful than Ferdinand and I were combined—with Angeline thrown in. I believe Nick may prove to be more biddable.”
She laughed but then sobered.
“Are you really going to send her back to Pinewood?” she asked. “Ferdinand may well challenge you if he discovers what you have done.”
“That would make a change,” he said. “I have not been challenged for over four years. I have forgotten the peculiar excitement attached to gazing down the wrong end of a pistol. I had better go and find him and give him the opportunity.”
“Jocelyn, do be serious,” she said.
“I was never more so,” he assured her. “I must find Ferdinand. I have to confess that being head of the family has never been more interesting. Take this rascal, will you, Jane? If I am not much mistaken, he has dampened my sleeve. Not to mention the soggy patch on my shoulder.”
He kissed her swiftly as she took their sleeping son from him.
Ferdinand wasted a good part of the afternoon looking for Daniel Kirby—without success—before deciding that as usual he was allowing impetuosity to lead him by the nose instead of harnessing his wrath and using it in a measured and effective way.
There was sure to be a much more effective way. He would need some assistance, though. He did not have to think too deeply before deciding that his brother was his best possible choice. And so he made his way to Grosvenor Square.
Both the duchess and his grace were away from home, Tresham's poker-faced butler informed him. The duchess was attending a garden party with Lady Webb. His grace was simply out.
“Damnation!” Ferdinand said aloud, flicking his riding whip impatiently against his boot. “I'll have to go searching for him, then.”
Fortunately he did not have to look far. Tresham's curricle turned into the square just as he was swinging himself up into the saddle.
“Ah,” Tresham called, “just the man I have been looking for. And you were on my doorstep all the time.”
“You have been looking for me?” Ferdinand dismounted, and his brother vaulted down from the high seat of his curricle and tossed the ribbons to his groom.
“Combing the streets of London,” Tresham said, setting a hand on his brother's shoulder and walking back up the steps to the house with him. He took Ferdinand into his library, closed the door, and poured them both a drink. “I have a confession to make, Ferdinand. My duchess believes it highly probable that you will slap a glove in my face as soon as I tell you.” He handed Ferdinand one of the glasses.
Ferdinand was bursting with his own news, but his brother's words arrested him. “What?” he asked.
“I have agreed to pay Miss Thornhill a largish sum to withdraw to Pinewood and never communicate with you again,” Tresham said.
“By God!” Ferdinand's fury finally found an available target. “You might have heeded Jane's warning. I'll kill you for this, Tresham.”
His brother sat down on a leather chair beside the hearth and crossed one booted leg over the other. He looked damnably unconcerned. “Actually,” he said, “it was Miss Thornhill's suggestion. And it is to be a loan rather than a gift. She will repay every penny plus interest. It is the additional request she made of me as part of our bargain that will be of particular interest to you.”
“Well, it will not be,” Ferdinand said, setting his glass down. “I do not want to hear it. I don't care what sum you have bribed her with, and I do not care what promises she has made you. I will pay your damned money back, and then I am going to release her from her promise. Maybe she will never have me. But she is going to be free to say yes if she means yes and no if she means no. Damn you, Tresham. I'll never speak to you again after today. I am too disgusted even to kill you, damn you.” He turned toward the door.
“She wants me to deliver the money personally into Kirby's hands,” Tresham said, ignoring the outburst. “And to extort from him a written statement to the effect that all debts have been fully and permanently paid off. Jane was right, you see. That scoundrel had her working off debts for a number of years. And having heard that she was returning to London, he no doubt discovered other debts—the ones I have agreed to pay off for her by advancing her a loan. I have told you all this with the greatest reluctance, Ferdinand, merely because it seemed selfish to hoard to myself all the pleasure of dealing with Kirby. I thought perhaps you might consider your claim to take the first, er, shot at him superior to my own.”
Ferdinand looked over his shoulder at his brother for a few moments before reaching into a pocket and drawing out the second of the two papers Bamber had put on his breakfast table earlier. He had hesitated about reading it at first, since it belonged to Viola, but it had been unsealed and he had been u
nable to resist the temptation. He crossed the room and handed it to his brother, who read it carefully from beginning to end.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“From Bamber,” Ferdinand said. “It was put into the safekeeping of the countess's solicitor in York together with a codicil to the late Bamber's will leaving Pinewood to his daughter. The solicitor, doubtless encouraged by the countess, conveniently forgot about both documents until Bamber went up there and reminded him. He arrived back in town this morning and came straight to me.”
“Bamber Senior paid off all the debts two years ago,” Tresham said, looking back at the paper. “All. And this is an interesting detail, Ferdinand. They were debts incurred by Clarence Wilding. Having had a slight acquaintance with the man, I can believe they were large enough. They became as deep as the ocean, no doubt, by the time Kirby acquired them and added interest of several hundred percent. Does Mrs. Wilding know of these debts? Do you know?”
“I don't think so,” Ferdinand said. “She seems genuinely to believe that Kirby found Viola a governess's job once upon a time and is finding her another now.”
“She took the whole burden on her own young shoulders, then,” Tresham said. “There are younger half-brothers and -sisters, I seem to recall?”
“Three of them. They must have been mere children at the time,” Ferdinand said. “Viola was a young lady by birth and education. Her illegitimacy would have been no great barrier to a decent future. Her father was an earl, after all. She could have expected to make a respectable match. Kirby took that chance from her and plunged her into hell instead.”
“You must understand,” Tresham said, “what a great sacrifice I am making, Ferdinand, in granting you precedence in this matter. I would offer to be your second, but I do not believe this man has earned the right to an honorable challenge, do you? Let me assist you, though. And a suggestion? I will not call it advice or you must reject it out of sheer principle. A bullet between the eyes is too easy. Besides, it will involve you in all sorts of annoying complications and you may find yourself obliged to spend the next year or two kicking your heels on the Continent. Pick up your drink again and have a seat and together we will contrive some suitable punishment.”
