Trapped by Scandal

by Jane Feather

  “What do you think of that one?” she murmured to her companion, gesturing casually to a fishing boat, about twenty feet long, with a small cabin, shabby, peeling paintwork on the decking, but from what she could see, the hull appeared sound, and the presence of lobster pots and fishing nets indicated that it was sufficiently seaworthy for regular use.

  Marie Claire swallowed, watching it toss in the wake of a larger fishing craft passing in the harbor behind it. “I’m sure it’ll do us well.”

  Hero shot her a quick concerned glance. She seemed suddenly rather pale. “What is it? Aren’t you happy to think that soon we’ll have kicked the dust of France from our shoes?”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course.” Marie Claire didn’t sound too convinced. Then she confessed, “I feel so silly, but I get most dreadfully seasick, Hero.”

  “Oh, you poor love.” Hero was instantly sympathetic, but there really wasn’t anything to be done about such an affliction except hope for a calm sea. “The weather’s been so nice, we might just be lucky and have a pleasant breeze and no swell,” she offered.

  “Just don’t tell Alec or William, please?” Marie Claire begged.

  “Not a word. Now, let’s find the market.”

  It was just before midnight when the four of them crept through the dark streets of Honfleur towards the quay. “This one,” Hero murmured, stopping at her choice. The sky was overcast, and there was little natural light. From a tavern in one of the narrow lanes leading up from the quay came the sounds of raucous laughter and the strains of an accordion. But the quay itself was deserted.

  “Get aboard,” William instructed. “Marie Claire, after Hero, and get down into the cabin out of sight. You, too, Hero.”

  “I thought I was sailing this tub,” she protested.

  “Alec and I will take her out of the harbor. Now, do as you’re told before anyone appears.”

  Hero swallowed her indignation; the need for speed and silence was too great to quarrel with William’s high-handedness at the moment. Later, on the open waters of the Channel, she would tell him how little she appreciated it.

  Somehow they managed to slip away from the dock without drawing any attention and tacked slowly across the harbor under a foresail beneath a gentle breeze until they reached the harbor’s sheltering headland and open water. The wind stiffened, and Hero, who had been crouching on the top step of the gangway to the cabin, stepped up onto the deck and came to stand against the railing. They were running before the wind, and William had the tiller, his eyes on the edge of the sail, correcting course when it fluttered.

  “I think we can risk the mainsail,” he said. “Can you and Alec get it hoisted?”

  Hero shot him a withering look, which made him laugh aloud, and called for her brother.

  The wind stayed fair, and the sea air seemed finally to blow away the last shreds of the terror of Paris, the last reek of blood and dirt. The Needle rocks and lighthouse appeared on the horizon early in the morning of their second day. Hero was at the tiller, lost in the motion of the little boat as it rose and dipped in the waves. Marie Claire was, as usual, curled in the far corner of the deck. She did much better in the fresh air and bravely kept her misery as much to herself as she could. Alec hovered, but there was little he could do except offer brandy and water, which seemed to ease the nausea somewhat.

  William emerged from the cabin with a hunk of bread and cheese and a cup of wine, coming to stand beside Hero at the tiller. “Shall we stop for a night and a day on the island?” he asked casually. “We can round the Needles and dock at Yarmouth. We could even manage proper beds in a hostelry and a decent dinner, if that would appeal.”

  “Would it?” she exclaimed, her eyes shining. “What an absolutely wondrous idea. A real bath, maybe. Perhaps some proper clothes. And meat, and wine, and even sheets . . . oh, can you imagine anything more delicious?”

  “Not easily,” he agreed, grinning at her enthusiasm. “But I can think of one other delight that might enhance the experience.”

  Her eyes seemed to melt with seductive languor, just as he had known they would. “Take over,” she demanded, pushing the tiller towards him. “I’m going to tell Alec and Marie Claire that in a few hours we’ll be on dry English soil.” She skipped away, and he watched her, wondering anew how it was that she could fill him with such pure pleasure just with her natural high spirits and optimism. Just a fleeting glimpse of her body made him ache with desire.

  And all too soon it must come to an end. They would enjoy their idyll on the Isle of Wight for a day or so, and then he would tell her what had to be. He would make his own way across to the mainland. Any one of the little fishing boats plying the Solent would be more than happy to take a paying passenger across to the little town of Lymington, and from there he could make his way by road to London. He would buy a horse, and a two-day ride would bring him to the capital. Alec and the two women could take their “borrowed” boat across the Solent, along the coast a short way and up the Beaulieu River to the Bruton family estate. It was the perfect solution. They would be safe at home, as if they had never left it, well beyond the reach of the Lizard and his agents without once traveling on English roads, and he would be free to concentrate on the business that awaited him in London, until he could return to his work in Paris.

  But they had a short time yet before that difficult conversation became necessary.

  It was early evening when they docked in the little fishing town of Yarmouth. Clear across the narrow strip of water, they could see Hurst spit, with its grim castle guarding the entrance to the narrow waters of the Solent. It was a familiar sight for the Fanshawe twins, who had sailed these waters since they were children, and for a moment, as they stood at the railing of the fishing boat, their hands touched in recognition that they were home.

  Marie Claire came to stand beside them, still a little shaky after her Channel ordeal but smiling. She had little knowledge of the English countryside and had never visited the Bruton country estate. She and Alec had met in London when her parents had brought her over for her first Season. French aristocracy mingled easily with the English in both London and Versailles, and they had fallen in love the first time they met.

  Hero was already engaged to the Honorable Thomas Lancaster, first lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and her brother’s happiness merely augmented her own. Until both their hopes had vanished into the blood-soaked streets of Paris and a patch of the Mediterranean Sea. But Alec had his love back—grieving, certainly, but safe.

  Hero was dry-eyed as she looked across to the familiar piece of land that represented home. She had ceased the deep, soul-wrenching mourning for Tom now and discovered with William that it was possible to love again, with as much intensity, indeed, to experience physical love again with even more intensity. And now she felt no guilt for that comparison, either. She drew a deep breath, and it felt almost as if it were the first truly deep breath she had drawn since the news of Tom’s death had reached her. She exhaled slowly, and her vision seemed to clear, to give her, finally, an unobstructed view of her future. She and William would work together at whatever mattered to him; they would love, they would live life to its fullest, as they had been doing. And for a moment, her happiness was exquisite. Everyone she loved was safe. And her past love was now a part of her, never to be lost but no longer an ever-present anguish.

  THIRTEEN

  London, October 1795, thirteen months later

  Hero gently placed her baby niece in Marie Claire’s arms and kissed her brother, who still seemed stunned as he sat on the edge of the bed, regarding his wife and child with amazement. “Everything is well, love,” she whispered against his cheek. “I’m going to bed now.”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course.” He reached up to hug her. “Thank you for staying up with me, dearest.”

  “As if I had a choice,” she said in the teasing, rallying tone they both understood.
“Marie Claire and Fleur will need to sleep soon, so you should, too.”

  “Aye,” Nan declared brusquely. “You all need your beds. Run along, Lady Hero, and you, my lord, can sleep in your own bedchamber. Her ladyship needs time and privacy to recover. Don’t you worry about little Lady Fleur; she’ll sleep in her cradle next to her mother.” She shooed the twins away, and Alec, after a last kiss on his wife’s forehead, obeyed the only maternal voice that had ever meant anything to him.

  Hero reached her own bedchamber. She had sent her maid to bed long since, but the flimsy silk evening gown was easy enough to cast off. She pushed the delicate material away with her foot, a vivid memory of the filthy peasant clothes she had worn during that long journey from Paris to safety suddenly overwhelming her. William was there in her mind’s eye. His hand on her back supporting her through the filthy underground stream, killing the two militia men on the riverbank, gutting a trout.

  And most of all, joining with her in the waters of the Seine, in the reeds, on the sandy riverside, in sun-dappled glades. And at the end, in the deep feather softness of the bed in the Eagle and Childe on Yarmouth quay.

  She lay gazing up at the embroidered tester above her as early daylight filled the long windows of her bedchamber. The embroidered scene depicted an Elizabethan knot garden, with a young girl and a peacock, its brilliant turquoise tail at full fan. But she didn’t really notice any of the beauty. She was too tired to sleep, her legs moving restlessly beneath the covers, which were suddenly too heavy and hot. And once again, the memory rose, clear and vivid, of waking on that other lovely morning full of promise that had brought an end to it all.

  The Eagle and Childe on Yarmouth quay was a pretty little inn with a lively taproom generally filled with local fishermen and farmers. Hero and William occupied a charming bedchamber overlooking the water, a room dominated by a big feather bed, which they had rarely left in the two days since they’d arrived. They saw little of their traveling companions, taking most of their meals in their own chamber. Hero had awoken on the third morning when the sun was high, filled with energy, which was surprising given how little sleep she had had the night before. There had been something urgent about the long hours of lovemaking, an edge to William’s passion, to which, as always, she had responded with her own insistent fervor. Now she lay in the feather softness of the bed, feeling the sun warm on her face. She was alone, which did not surprise her; her bedfellow was always up betimes. Sleep seemed a commodity of which William had enviably little need. She had just swung her legs out of bed and was indulging in a long, luxurious stretch when William returned. He was dressed and carried a mug of coffee, which he set down on the dresser.

  “I thought you might appreciate coffee.”

  “Thank you. I need it.” She smiled at him, waiting for his good-morning kiss, but he remained where he was, standing with his back to the window, regarding her gravely. And the first inkling of a premonition came to her. “Is something wrong, William?” She could hear the tentative note in her voice, the little tremor of unease.

  “It’s time for this to end, Hero.” He spoke almost without expression, as if he was merely delivering a message that had nothing to do with him. “We have run our course together.”

  She stared at him. “I don’t understand . . . what are you saying?”

  He sighed and passed a hand over his face in a weary gesture. “I am saying, my dear, that we have enjoyed each other a great deal in the last weeks, but now it is time to bring our liaison to a close. From the first, I made it clear that this could never be permanent, that we would enjoy each other while we could, but it would have to end.”

  “Why must it? I know you have work to do, and I know how vital that work is to you, but I would not stand in your way, hold you up in any way. I haven’t so far, have I?” A note of challenge entered her voice as she felt her fighting spirit come to the fore. Whatever he thought, he was wrong.

  “No, you have not. But my work then concerned you, getting you to safety. I will not involve you in anything that will not benefit you. And believe me, my dear Hero, nothing about me from this time on will benefit you. You must now—” He held up a hand as she opened her mouth in protest. “No, be silent, and let me finish. It is time for you now to start living the life you were born to. You cannot go racketing around Europe, or anywhere else, for that matter. Your reputation is still intact, but it won’t be for long if you persist in your reckless disregard for your world’s rules and obligations.”

  “I don’t give a fig for them,” she said furiously. “I don’t give a tinker’s dam for my reputation. Why should I?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” he responded harshly. “You’re not in the least foolish, so don’t pretend to be. I will not be responsible for ruining you by tarnishing your reputation.”

  “My reputation is not your responsibility,” she responded as fiercely as before. “It is mine and mine alone.”

  “No, there you are quite wrong. You are simply too young and inexperienced to understand the consequences of your impulses and your reckless insistence in following your own urges and wishes. You must put a bridle on your unschooled self-will, and if you won’t, then someone else has to do it. I will not play any part in your social ruin. You have no idea what it would be like to live as a social outcast.”

  “But where has all this come from?” She was bewildered at the suddenness, the harsh finality of his demeanor. “Why now?”

  “Because you are safe now. You’re within a few miles of home, and you can get there with no one knowing even that you’ve been away. Spending time in the country at this time of year is perfectly acceptable; most of Society spends the summer in the country. The London Season will soon begin, and when people start trickling back, you will, too. Marie Claire’s wedding must be arranged, and you’ll be deeply involved, as she has no family of her own. By the time all that is settled, you will once more be established, and there’ll be no danger of your hotheaded, foolhardy escapade of the last weeks becoming public.”

  Hero had become accustomed to William’s assumption of authority, his habit of giving orders, and on the whole, she had accepted it as a necessary responsibility of leadership, and their escape had required one clear leader. No one had questioned his authority, but this was different. They were safe in England, she was on her own home ground, and once more, she was her own person, responsible for herself and her actions. He had no right to assume any authority in their relationship now.

  She shook her head emphatically. “No, who I am and what I do are no longer your responsibility. When it was possible that my actions might endanger others, then I was perfectly happy to accept your edicts, but not now, not here. As it happens, I do not choose to return to London for this Season or any other. Society bores me, even more so after the last few weeks. How could I possibly settle for the interminable round of balls and rout parties and the endless chatter of debutantes and the foolish vanity of men with not a sensible thought between their ears after the time we have spent together?”

  His expression hardened, his tawny eyes narrowing, and he spoke with a deadly quiet ferocity, articulating every word. “I can give you nothing, Hero. I have nothing to give. You will simply be in the way of what I have to do. I cannot love you. I do not love you. What we have had was a delightful interlude, but there was never a promise of permanence. You understood that. You must return to your place in the world, and you must learn to live within its rules. You will find happiness with some other man if you accept your life and understand that a careless liaison will ruin you.”

  And as she stood, numbed by his words, he left her. No farewell kiss, no softening of the hard finality of his statement, just the firm click of the closing door.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, going to the window to look down onto the quay, to see if he emerged from the inn. All her optimism, her exhilaration at the promise of the future she had imagined
they would have, was as dead as the one she had lost when Tom was killed.

  And when he came out of the inn and strode without a backwards glance up towards the bedchamber window where she stood, Hero remembered those disturbing moments in the past when he had seemed to disapprove of something she was doing. She had puzzled then about the strange puritanical streak that had led him to upbraid her for some careless attitude or action, and now, in that dreadful scene, she heard the culmination of that puzzling anger. But she still didn’t understand it or where it had come from.

  Hero rolled onto her side, trying to find a cool patch on the crisp white pillow. She tried to think of Fleur, tried to think of the life that lay ahead for the baby, a life of privilege and joy and love. But the grim memory of that last morning in Yarmouth would not leave her in peace. She had finally managed to dress and make her way down to the taproom of the inn to find Alec, hoping that he might be able to throw some light on William’s cruel departure. But her twin had little to offer. He had told her that William had decreed that he, Hero, and Marie Claire would take their purloined little sailing boat across the Solent and up the Beaulieu River to home. As far as Alec knew, William was heading for London, but what business took him there Alec didn’t know. William Ducasse always played his cards close to his chest.

  And that had been the end of a surreal idyll that had combined horror and passion in almost exact proportions.

  Until tonight . . . or, rather last night, at Ranelagh.

  For twelve months, she had endured her anger, confusion, incomprehension in silence. She refused to invite pity from her brother or Marie Claire, refused to feel a victim, to feel rejected, and by immersing herself in all the numerous details of planning Marie Claire’s speedy wedding to her brother, she had found herself back in Society life as if she had never left it. The wedding had been quiet, as Marie Claire was still officially in mourning for her parents, but the love the two of them so clearly held for each other banished any reminders of grief. The bride, well recovered from her ghastly ordeal, was radiant in a gown of dove-gray embroidered damask, and the groom’s joy was so overwhelming it brought smiles to everyone he came into contact with.