by Amanda Scott
13
THORNE HAD SPENT THE night at his house in Brook Street. His first inclination, to dash after Gillian, had been impossible at the time. His second, to drown his sorrows in a few more bottles, he had rejected out of hand. Realizing that he would do better to think things out carefully before taking any action at all, he had held his emotions in check long enough to see Lady Marrick and Dorinda to their doorstep, but he had refused their invitation to step inside with as much politeness as he could muster and had taken himself directly home afterward.
Having spent a practically sleepless night trying to think of a way out of his predicament that would neither ruin Miss Ponderby nor alienate his father, in the blazing light of mid-morning he awoke from his uneasy slumbers to the realization that Gillian had been right about one thing at least. He had got into the fix he was in by not speaking out at once.
He had taken snuff from the first moment of learning that Gillian dared to interest herself in the running of what he had thought were her father’s lands. The subsequent discovery that she had every right to interest herself, and indeed, had more authority to effect change than he did himself, had been a bitter pill to swallow. He had behaved badly, and he knew it. Moreover, he was rapidly coming to understand what she had meant when she accused him of making judgments before he had all his facts and to believe that he was as responsible as the duke was—if not more so—for their present uncomfortable situation.
But here he was, sitting over his late breakfast, thinking of Gillian instead of putting his mind to the problem at hand, which was how to extricate himself from the tangle that had been woven about him. He was fairly certain now that Dorinda, for reasons of her own, had been the manipulator behind the scenes the previous night. He had blamed his cousin Dawlish, but Dawlish had certainly never intended him to wed Miss Ponderby.
He was still picking at his food when his footman brought in a tray with the morning post, and he waved it aside. “Just leave it. I’ll look through it later,” he said.
“Begging your pardon, m’lord, but Lord Dawlish is below. I told him you wasn’t at home, but he insists on speaking to you.”
Thorne sighed. “Very well, send him up. And you might as well bring him coffee, Ferry, and anything else you think he might like.” When Dawlish entered a moment later, Thorne looked at him from beneath his brows and said, “Mighty formal this morning, Peregrine. You needn’t stand there looking as though you expect to be flogged. Sit down. Ferry will bring coffee.”
“I don’t want anything, Josh. I came to apologize, and if you’re going to be kind about it, it will make it much worse. I wasn’t certain you’d even agree to see me.”
“Much you would have cared for that. Sit down, man. I cannot abide your fidgeting.”
“Oh, very well,” Dawlish said, flinging himself into a chair, “but I never meant it, you know. I asked that idiotic chit to write a note, telling her what was planned, but I never thought she’d play all-hide with the meeting place and then use our plan to trap you into marrying her.”
Thorne, realizing in a flash that he had been right about the real plan, had to fight to keep his temper, and he could see by Dawlish’s widening eyes that he was only partially successful. “So this farrago can be laid at your door,” he said, his words measured, his tone carefully calm.
Dawlish squirmed in his chair and reached out toward the silver tray full of letters near his arm, fingering them nervously. “I said I was sorry, Josh. We only wanted to help.”
“I see,” Thorne said grimly. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think of your help.” And he proceeded to give his cousin the trimming of his young life in a calm but deadly voice. If it did nothing else, it relieved Thorne’s pent-up feelings, and he felt a good deal better by the time he ran out of things to say.
Dawlish sat silently through it all, making no attempt to vindicate himself or to stem the tide of words, but they seemed to flow around and over him, leaving little impression. He continued to fiddle with the letters on the tray, pushing them this way and that, looking more at them than at his cousin, though he did glance at Thorne whenever he was commanded to look at him. Then, suddenly, he looked sharply at one of the letters uncovered by his manipulations, snatched it up, and said, “Why the devil would Crawley be writing to you, for goodness’ sake? We are to meet him in a couple of hours, are we not?”
“I shall not have time for that today, I fear. Are you listening to what I am saying to you, Peregrine?”
“Oh yes, of course, Josh. Sorry. Only I couldn’t think why he would write to you, you know, when we see him all the time. It might be important, don’t you think?”
“I don’t care if it is. Crawley’s problems have nothing to do with me. I have matters of my own to attend to. I am not going to marry that girl, Perry, but I must get out of it as gracefully as I can for the benefit of everyone concerned.”
“Oh, yes, of course. If there is anything I can do—”
“Don’t suggest it! In fact, if you have nothing better to do than to sit goggling at me, I wish you would leave. I am going to Langshire House. Can I drop you anywhere?”
“No, no. I’m just going ’round the corner to call on a friend. I won’t keep you any longer. And, Josh, truly—”
“I know,” Thorne said gruffly. “You just wanted to help.” He watched him go, then got to his feet, intending to order his chaise at once, but his gaze fell upon the letter Dawlish had drawn apart from the others. It was Crawley’s bold handwriting, certainly. He picked it up. No doubt the man needed a loan and didn’t like to ask again in person, though that was not really his way of going about such things. Breaking the seal, Thorne read swiftly, his fury growing with ever word.
“Josh,” the note said, “I’ve asked Lady Gillian to marry me. My affairs are in such a tangle that only money will set them right. I can’t wait to see if Dacres comes up to scratch, nor can I afford to purchase a special license here in London. Cheaper ones may be had at Fledborough in Nottinghamshire—in fact, the cheapest in all England, I am told—so we will go there today. She agrees it will be best, in view of what transpired between you and Miss Ponderby, and she don’t want a fancy wedding anyway. Sorry, old fellow, but I promise I’ll look after her, and it will solve all our problems. Yours, Crawler.”
Gritting his teeth, Thorne crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it onto the table. His first inclination was to find Crawley and throttle him. His second was to find Gillian and strangle her. He glanced at the clock on the breakfast room mantel and saw that it was nearly eleven o’clock. No doubt they were long gone. They would take the Great North Road, which he knew well, but there was no point in chasing after them until he had his own affairs in hand.
Shouting for Ferry, he snatched up the note again, deciding it would be far more pleasant to stuff it down Crawley’s throat when he had the chance than merely to leave it. He had no worries that his servants would read it. They knew better. When Ferry entered, Thorne said, “I shall want my phaeton and the chestnuts ready for me in two hours’ time. If I am not back by then, tell them to keep them moving but not to unharness them. I shall want them ready to leave at a moment’s notice. And have my curricle brought ’round at once. I am going to Langshire House.”
He wasted no time, leaving the curricle in the drive at Langshire House with Tim Cooley to walk his horses. He found his father in the library.
“Sir,” he said, walking swiftly toward the duke, “I must talk with you.”
“Come in, Josiah, and sit down. I have been expecting you. I’ve no doubt you will wish to discuss your marriage settlements and other such things. You will want your allowance increased—”
“No, sir,” Thorne said, drawing up a chair, “I do not. I ought to have spoken up long before this, but I have really only just come to realize that I have never made my feelings about certain matters plain to you. I wish to do so now. Afterward, if you still insist upon it, we can discuss whatever you like.”
Th
e duke, instead of taking him to task for his boldness, as he had half expected him to do, merely gestured for him to continue. Taking the bull by the horns, he did so, and forty minutes later left the house with a spring in his step, but with the knowledge that a much more difficult task lay ahead of him.
When he drew up in Park Street, he saw that someone was at the door before him and fairly gnashed his teeth at the thought that he might have to wait a time before he could be private with Miss Ponderby, Lady Marrick, and the earl. But then he saw, just as the door opened, that the other visitor was only Corbin.
Leaping down from the curricle the moment Cooley had run to the leaders’ heads, Thorne hurried up the steps. The butler and Corbin had seen him and they waited. Corbin regarded him with a rather wary expression.
Thorne didn’t mince words. “If you would repay me for the tangle you and Mongrel managed to create for me, you will take yourself off and let me deal with this alone.”
Corbin smoothed his elegant neckcloth and removed a bit of lint from his dark sleeve. “Well now, Josh, that’s just what I can’t do,” he said. “I believe I’ve as much a stake as you do in the outcome of this business. Moreover, if you were hoping to speak with Marrick or his lady, you are balked at the outset. They are not here.”
Dismayed, Thorne turned to the butler, but Blalock was nodding his head. “He is quite right, m’lord. Lord Marrick and his lady have gone for a drive in Richmond Park and do not expect to return to the house until sometime late this evening.”
Thorne was at a standstill, but Corbin said calmly, “We will see Miss Ponderby, if you please, Blalock. At once.”
The butler hesitated. “I do not think that would be allowed, sir, if I might be so bold as to say so, there being no proper chaperon on the premises, so to speak.”
“Dash it all, man, we don’t want a chaperon. Be damnably in the way, I can tell you. Miss Ponderby is here, is she not?”
“Oh, yes, sir, but—”
“Then you just take us up to see her. No need to announce us, either, for we are not going to give that young woman a single chance to play least in sight. I daresay she’ll be in the morning room at this hour, will she not?”
The butler, faced with two gentlemen who clearly meant to have their way, proprieties notwithstanding, said weakly, “I ought to call the footmen to put you out, m’lord.”
“If you think they can,” Corbin said, “by all means call them. Haven’t had a good set-to in days. Daresay the exercise will do us good.” His tone of voice was no longer the lazy drawl he affected but a crisp, challenging one, and Thorne hid a smile, knowing Corbin was no ordinary Bond Street lounger.
Blalock capitulated. “The young ladies are in the morning room, sir. I might remind you that Miss Clementina has been very ill and is by no means recovered.” He paused, but when his words appeared to have no effect, said, “I will take you up.”
Thorne had not the least notion what he was going to do, but he no longer objected to Corbin’s presence. He certainly could not demand a private interview with Miss Ponderby when neither of her parents was in the house. He and Corbin were stretching the bounds of propriety to breaking point, as it was, by seeking her out with only her little sister to protect her reputation.
They did not speak as they followed the butler upstairs, and the gallery was carpeted, so their steps were silent ones. The morning room door stood ajar, and quite clearly they heard Clementina say, “Oh, Dorrie, you are always so wonderfully kind to me! To think you have been reading aloud for an hour without so much as a complaint, all because I was upset to learn that Gillian had gone. You are truly the best of sisters.”
Thorne grimaced, but to his shock the next thing they heard was Clementina crying out, “Oh, Dorrie, what is wrong? Why do you cry like that? You said it was your fault that Gillian had gone away, but that cannot be so. Oh, pray do not cry!”
Corbin jumped forward to stop Blalock before he could be seen from inside the room. Catching the butler’s arm, he signaled to him to remain silent, but grimaced at Thorne, making plain his distaste for any eavesdropping, and his intention nevertheless to engage in a bit of it.
Thorne had much the same mixed feelings, but he had heard Dorinda mutter something and Clementina respond, and he realized that he wanted desperately to hear what Miss Ponderby was saying.
They moved a step nearer and heard her say, “Oh, Clemmie, I am such a wretch, but indeed, I did not know he loved her.”
“Lord Crawley? But why should that make you cry? I did not know he loved her either. In fact, I should be very surprised—”
“No, not Crawley, Thorne! But how could I know? I am not the perfect sister you believe me to be. I am utterly wicked. I cannot stand to have you think ill of me, but when you discover what I have done, you will hate me just as they all do.”
Clementina said gently, “Don’t be a goose, Dorrie. I do not care a rap for what you have done. I shall always think you the very best of sisters.”
“But I am selfish and greedy. You know I am, and I cannot change, Clemmie. I do not want to spend my life making and scraping and hoping that the man I marry won’t leave me with children to support as Papa did Mama. It terrifies me to think how easily that can come to pass if one is not careful. But I have done such dreadful things! And I never meant to harm her.”
“Gillian?” Clementina said. “But what have you done?”
“I tricked Thorne into a betrothal last night, with me.”
“Oh, Dorrie, no!”
“Yes, but I did not know he loved her until it was too late. I know that you said he cared for her, but when they didn’t seem even to want to speak to each other, I thought you must be mistaken, but when he came to me last night—thinking I was her, you know, for I had turned my domino inside out—he called me sweetheart and my love. But by then it was too late. I had seen my chance the minute Dawlish told me what they had planned, wanting to bring his lordship and Gillian together again, you see, and I took advantage of it—just as I took advantage of seeing the newspaper office directly across the street when Mama and I went to Honiton to buy ribbons that day.”
“Dorrie, you didn’t! You were the one who put that notice in the papers? Oh, Dorrie, you had very much better hope that Thorne never finds out. He would be so angry with you!”
Thorne had not meant to listen so long, but had stood transfixed when he heard Dorinda say he loved Gillian. He did love her, but to hear the words spoken by someone else had been enough of a shock to stop him in his tracks for that extra, important moment. Now, exchanging a grim look with Corbin, he stepped past him into the open doorway and said, “I am afraid the hope is a forlorn one, Miss Clementina. I heard every word.”
Both young ladies shrieked when they saw him, and Dorinda leapt to her feet, looking about her in panic, as though she wanted to run from the room. Before Thorne could continue, Corbin said from behind him, “You have gone your limit now, Miss Ponderby. By God, what you deserve is a good—”
“Never mind that now,” Thorne said sharply. “Miss Ponderby, has Marrick sent an announcement to the papers yet?”
Dorinda, keeping a more watchful eye on Corbin than on Thorne, said, “I do not think so, sir. He and my mama left very early this morning for Richmond Park, and they did not seem to be in the least interested in any affairs but their own. But so many people heard what transpired last night—Oh, sir, can you ever forgive me? It was a dreadful thing, I know, but I—”
She had glanced at Thorne when she blurted the apology, but her gaze went swiftly back to Corbin. She was looking at him as though she had never seen him before, and indeed, Thorne thought, glancing at his friend, she had surely never seen this side of him. Corbin was standing beside him, his countenance stern and unyielding, his anger a nearly palpable thing. Thorne looked again at Dorinda, and decided he could safely take his leave. He paused only to say, “I want to be clear about this. There is no engagement between us. I am going to marry Gillian.”
&n
bsp; Dorinda turned toward him then, dismayed. “Oh, but sir, she drove out with Lord Crawley some time ago. He wrote to me saying he means to marry her, and I think from things he said before and what Gillian wrote to Clementina, that perhaps they mean to elope ... that perhaps they are doing so even now,” she added.
“Yes, I believe they are,” he replied calmly. “I had a letter from Crawley this morning, informing me of the fact. It was kind of him to want to help, but I believe their marriage must be stopped, do not you, Corbin?”
Corbin glanced at him. “Oh, certainly, my dear chap. They will be bound for Gretna, I daresay.”
“No, only to Nottinghamshire. Who do you suppose was kind enough to inform him that a special license might be had there more cheaply than in London?”
Corbin did not look at him. His gaze appeared still to be fixed upon Miss Ponderby.
Thorne didn’t wait. He turned to Clementina. “I stand in your debt, Miss Clementina. When you are well again, I shall take you sailing on my yacht. You will enjoy that, I daresay.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” she exclaimed. “I should like it above all things. But please, Lord Thorne, do not be too angry with Dorinda. She is not a wicked person, truly she is not!”
He smiled. “I am not in the least angry with her now, child, but you may have to protect her from Corbin. He looks fit to throttle her. I leave them in your most capable hands, however, for I must catch a pair of elopers.”
Clementina smiled back at him. “And you will not forget, sir, that you are to take me on your yacht one day. Promise!”
“Oh, I will not forget, my dear. I always pay my debts, as Crawley is about to learn to his cost.”
He left them then, hurried down the stairs and out to the street, only to be hailed by Mr. Vellacott, who was strolling toward him on the flagway.
