Outwardly, they were both very fashionable ladies, now well versed in all the rigid customs of that strange tribe called society. Honoria entertained young men, accepting bouquets, poems and compliments with aplomb, although Pamela often wondered if she actually ever saw any of her suitors. Lord Herne was in constant attendance and Lady Dacey turned a deaf ear to Pamela's complaints, saying that Herne was “an old friend.”
Lady Dacey became more and more flirtatious with the duke, who seemed neither to encourage her or repel her. Into tolerance, she read smoldering passion held in check. She had become accustomed to her new “respectable” appearance and already saw herself as the Duchess of Ware.
And then one day Lord Herne called and asked to see her privately. Knowing that Pamela and Honoria had gone to Lincoln's Inn Fields and that therefore she was in no danger of being disturbed, she settled down with interest to listen to what he had to say.
“I have come to a decision about Miss Goodham,” he began. “But first I would like to show you something.” He brought out of his pocket a heavy morocco box and flipped back the lid. A huge diamond blazed up from its bed of white satin. Lady Dacey drew a long, slow breath and one hand reached out for the gem. He snapped the lid shut. “Not yet,” he said. “You must order Miss Goodham to marry me.”
“She is a very strong-willed young miss. She will glare at me and pack her bags.”
He gave her a slow smile. “No, she won't. Not if she does not have a home to go back to.”
“What can you mean?”
“I do not wish to sound conceited, but the facts are these. Ware is no longer interested in her, if he ever was. I am a catch. I have both title and fortune. I confess my reputation is a tiny bit black ... gossip, my dear, only gossip. But the fact remains that while you were in Paris, Miss Goodham's name was linked with that of Ware in the social columns—Ware who is a notorious rake. But no parents came hot-footing it down from Yorkshire to protect their ewe lamb. So if you wish to earn this jewel, and I do mean earn, you will write to Mr. and Mrs. Goodham describing me in glowing terms and say that you wish to give me their permission to pay my addresses. Suggest that Miss Goodham might prove a bit flighty and missish and therefore it would be politic in them to order their daughter to marry me.”
“I have not seen my sister this age,” said Lady Dacey, inelegantly biting her thumb. “She was always a tiny bit puritanical.”
He looked at her for a long moment and then said softly, “And yet why do you think she allowed her daughter to be brought out by you?”
“No doubt because I have a title now. No one is puritanical when it comes to titles.”
“So, you see ... ?”
“Very well,” said Lady Dacey. “I'll do it. But before I approach Honoria, I'll get her parents’ permission. Why have you suddenly decided on marriage after all this time? To be frank, Honoria will sermonize you to death.”
“There is no other way I can have her,” he said brutally. He stood up and collected his hat and cane. “Do not fail me,” he said, looking down at her. “I make a bad enemy.”
“What is this talk of enemies?” Lady Dacey looked at him in surprise. “If by any chance her parents refuse their permission, that is that.”
His eyes glowed with an evil light. His voice was silky. “See that they do not.”
Lady Dacey sat nervously for some time after he had left. What could he do to her? His threats were surely empty. Then with a little sigh, she crossed the room to the writing desk and began to write to the Goodhams.
* * * *
The duke was beginning to wonder why he stayed on in London. The cares of his estates beckoned. Lord Herne always seemed to be with Lady Dacey's party, and Honoria was obviously doing nothing to disaffect him. His rage at her had died and he wished it were back again, for now the sight of her, seemingly indifferent to his presence at balls and parties, gave him a dull ache. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself for having let himself get into such a miserable state over a young miss. London was surely full of fascinating beauties and yet he could not seem to find any. His secretary had done some research on the Goodham family for him. Apart from the disgraceful Lady Dacey, they seemed to have no other skeletons in their closet. They were an undistinguished gentry family, living in a quiet and religious way in Yorkshire. As a duke, he should be thinking of marrying someone of his own rank. He told himself it was ridiculous he should ever have contemplated proposing marriage to Honoria and tried to put her out of his mind. And yet he stayed in London.
For her part, Honoria felt she had sunk into a sort of numb state where nothing much seemed to matter. This wonderful London Season should be the highlight of her life. She should be treasuring memories of it for her future.
But she was shocked out of lethargy one day when Pamela said to her, “I fear Lord Herne is going to ask both Lady Dacey and your parents for permission to marry you.”
“Let him ask,” said Honoria dully. “I will not marry him.”
Pamela looked at her impatiently. “You may have no option. If your parents and Lady Dacey give their permission, you will have no say in the matter. They were prepared to force you to marry Mr. Pomfret. Had you encouraged the attentions of some other suitable man, then you would not be in this position.”
“But what can I do?” asked Honoria.
“It may not be too late,” urged Pamela. “Look, let us sit down and write out a list of the young men I have noticed paying you court. We are going to the Palfreys’ masked ball tonight. I suggest you begin to encourage someone more suitable.”
She sat down and began to write. “You can score out Archie Buchan's name,” said Honoria, looking over her shoulder. “And how many of the others think I am an heiress?”
“I wish the Duke of Ware had not decided to be so malicious,” sighed Pamela. “Does he never approach you or speak to you?”
“No,” said Honoria bitterly. “He is not worth troubling about, Pamela. He is a hardened rake.”
Pamela looked up at her. “I never understood what happened there, Honoria. Despite his reputation, I thought he behaved most kindly to you. In fact, I was ready to swear there was more than that.”
A slow, painful blush mounted to Honoria's cheeks and she turned her face away.
Pamela stood up and faced her. “What is this? What happened? You must tell me. I am responsible for your welfare.”
Honoria hung her head and said on a little sigh, “He kissed me.”
“Where?”
“On the mouth.”
“You widgeon! I mean, when?”
“It was the night you told Mr. Delaney you did not want to see him again. Do you remember?”
“As if I could ever forget!”
“We came back here and Aunt asked Ware into the house and told both of us to go to bed.”
“I remember.”
“Well, I ... I found I was hungry, for I had eaten practically nothing, and so I went down to the kitchen and had something, pie, I think. When I came back up to the hall, Ware was just leaving. He came up to me and kissed me. I thought he loved me, because of that kiss. He said he would call to take me driving the following afternoon. But he sent word that he was otherwise engaged and since then he has avoided me. That was the first kiss I had ever received, but for him, simply one of a thousand.”
“Oh, my dear, how very sad. You must put him out of your mind.”
“How I wish we did not have to go to this ball tonight!” exclaimed Honoria. “How I long for one quiet evening at home. How I long to be able to rise and see the dawn instead of going to bed as the day breaks.”
“I confess to feeling very weary myself,” said Pamela. “But Lady Dacey seems indefatigable. She has hopes of Ware, you know.”
Honoria winced. “They are well suited.”
“I cannot believe that. Well, we may as well brace ourselves for another evening. At least we will be masked and so can scowl and look weary as much as we like.”
When Honor
ia had left, Pamela sat very still, feeling a great weight of sadness come over her. She wondered where Mr. Delaney was. She suddenly wished she had not ended their friendship, that he were still in London, for he would know why Ware had behaved in such a cavalier way. It was surely not in Ware's character to kiss a young girl. Pamela then thought of Lord Herne and shuddered. She hated the way he looked at Honoria, the way his eyes fastened on her body. If only Ware ... She bit the end of her quill pen and stared into space. Ware. There was one way to find out. He would surely be at the ball that evening. Why did she not seek him out and ask him? She began to brighten. As Honoria's chaperon it was her duty to ask him. Time, she felt, was running out for Honoria. Either she would find herself wed to Herne or return home in disgrace and be forced to wed Mr. Pomfret. It was then she realized that the weekly letter from her husband had not arrived. Perhaps the weather had been bad in the north and the mail delayed. She bent her head to the task of listing Honoria's suitors.
* * * *
Mr. Sean Delaney put up at an inn in the largest town near to the village where the Perryworths lived. Now that he was actually in Yorkshire, he felt his courage waning. The vicar would be outraged. He would tell Honoria's parents, who would be alarmed that their daughter's chaperon had been behaving so disgracefully. But he had come this far and he was determined not to turn back. In all his feckless idle life, he had never been more determined on anything.
The weather on the following day boosted his spirits. It was warm and sunny with great fleecy clouds chasing each other across the sky.
He saw the spire of the church rising above the fields. The vicarage, he knew, would be hard by the church. He found it easily enough and dismounted and tethered his horse to the gate post. As he approached the vicarage, he sensed that no one was at home. No smoke rose from the chimney. All was still and quiet. He knocked loudly, waited and listened, but no one answered.
He walked over to the church and pushed open the door. The interior was dim and the old flagstones on the aisle were splashed with rectangles of blue and red and gold from the stained glass windows. To his right, a marble tomb gleamed whitely, two angels holding laurel wreaths up to the hammerbeam ceiling. He was about to turn away when a movement from the altar caught his eye. He walked forward. A village woman was polishing the brass rail.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Delaney. “Would you be so good as to tell me where I can find Mr. Perryworth?”
The woman bobbed a curtsy and then said, “Him's gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
“Squire says him's gone to visit a relative in Leicester.”
Mr. Delaney stood there feeling helpless.
“When does he return?”
“Don't know, sir, I'm sure.”
Mr. Delaney turned and left the church and stood outside in the sunshine. Then he began to walk forward slowly to the vicarage again. He wanted to see where she lived, to imagine her sitting in those rooms. Feeling guilty, he looked about him, but no one was in sight. He looked in one window: a rather bleak parlor with a sanded floor and a mud-colored rug, heavy old-fashioned furniture, a bookcase with what looked like heavy ecclesiastical tomes, a stone fireplace, and a square table. It appeared, he thought, as if no one had ever lived there. He glanced over his shoulder again and then moved to the next window. This was obviously the vicar's study: a desk with an oil lamp, bookshelves, pens and ink, and on the desk, two letters, both sealed.
He leaned closer. The sun was behind him and a shaft of sunlight struck the letters on the desk. One, he read, was addressed to the bishop and the other to Pamela. His heart beat hard. Why should the vicar leave a letter to his wife on his desk instead of sending it when she was not due to return from London for some time? All at once, he was desperate to know what was in that letter to Pamela. He walked round the house, looking for a way in, but every window was closed and every door locked.
At first he thought he would return to the inn and wait until night fell, then return and break a window. But perhaps the safer option would be to visit this squire and find out if there were any rumors that the vicar had fled.
The squire, he learned from a shop in the village that appeared to sell everything from candles to corsets, was Sir John Cartwright and he lived in the manor house just outside the village. Mr. Delaney rode there, hoping that the squire would be at home.
Sir John was pleased to receive him. He was a dingy, gross sort of man, slouched in his study, surrounded by dogs. A female voice could be heard berating a servant somewhere else in the house, showing that there was probably a Lady Cartwright.
“Sit down,” said Sir John. “We are glad to receive a gentleman. Not many of them around here.”
Mr. Delaney sat opposite him and accepted a glass of white brandy, which he shrewdly guessed had been smuggled. The squire heaved himself out of his chair and stirred up the fire with his boot and then sank back again with a grunt. “What brings you here?” he asked.
“I came to find Mr. Perryworth, your vicar.”
“He has gone to visit relatives, I believe,” said the squire.
“I looked in at the window of his study,” said Mr. Delaney, adding hurriedly, “just to make sure no one was at home. There are two letters on his desk, one to the bishop and the other to Mrs. Perryworth.”
“So?” The squire raised his bushy eyebrows. “Why shouldn't a man leave letters in his own house and on his own desk?”
“As Mrs. Perryworth is Chaperoning Miss Goodham at the London Season, which still has some length of time to run, why did he not post it?”
“Forgot?”
“But neither letter is addressed. It is as if they have been left there to be found at a later date.”
“The vicar probably wrote both letters, then was in a rush to go and see his relatives, and so forgot to address them and post them.” The squire looked smug in a patronizing way.
“In any case,” said Mr. Delaney, cursing this stupid squire in his heart, “I shall be returning to London. Is there one of the vicar's servants in the village who could get me that letter for Mrs. Perryworth so that I can deliver it?”
“There's Mrs. Jones, the cook-housekeeper.”
“Then she must go daily to clean, if she does not live in.”
“She lives there when the Perryworths are in residence, but the vicar said he did not want the house to be disturbed and paid her for a month, so she is residing with her sister over at Lower End.”
“Which is where?”
“Five miles out on the east road.”
Mr. Delaney forced himself to stay where he was and engage the squire in conversation for another quarter of an hour before making his escape. He rode out on the east road until he reached Lower End, which was an indistinguished hamlet without shop or church or inn. He soon found Mrs. Jones, a sturdy Welshwoman, who listened carefully. Then it was as if a shutter had closed down over her eyes.
“The reason I am come to you,” pursued Mr. Delaney, “is because I shall see Mrs. Perryworth in London and I could take her that letter.”
“Reckon it's nobody's business but vicar's,” said Mrs. Jones, folding sturdy red shiny arms like potted meat. He felt like shaking her. He suddenly decided to return to his original plan and go back after dark and break into the vicarage.
But he had one last try. “Let me put it to you like this, Mrs. Jones. A man who leaves letters for his wife and his bishop on his desk and disappears usually is a man who has taken his own life.”
“Vicar'd never do that!” exclaimed Mrs. Jones. “Not over that whore.”
“What whore?” asked Mr. Delaney.
She stood for a long time in silence, staring at her square-buckled shoes. He made an impatient noise and turned toward his horse.
“Wait, sir!” she cried. She put a large hand into her apron pocket and produced a key. “This fits the lock in the back door.”
Mr. Delaney seized it and mounted and rode off before she could change her mind.
When he reached the vicarage, he saw to his irritation that there was a light gig drawn up outside and the squire and a thin angular lady were peering in the study window. As he approached them, he heard the lady say, “You always were a fool. Never could see what was happening under your nose, you were so busy ogling her yourself.”
Mr. Delaney coughed and they swung round. The squire introduced his wife. “I have the key to the back door,” said Mr. Delaney firmly, “and I consider it my duty as a friend of Mrs. Perryworth to see what is in that letter.”
“You cannot go opening a letter that is not addressed to you,” protested the squire.
“If he doesn't, I will,” said Lucy Cartwright, giving her husband an impatient push.
They walked round to the back of the house and Mr. Delaney turned the key in the lock and walked inside. The squire and his wife followed. The chill and the dreariness of the house struck Mr. Delaney. Even if the vicar turned out to have behaved in a respectable way and had merely gone to visit relatives as he had said, Mr. Delaney was determined Pamela should never return to this house.
They went into the study. Despite a short bark of protest from the squire, Mr. Delaney picked up the letter with Pamela's name on it, broke the seal, and carried it to the window.
He scanned the contents and then read them very slowly and carefully. In stilted language, the vicar informed his wife he had gone to America to start a new life. He said that as their marriage had never been consummated, he could no longer regard them as man and wife. To that end, he had written to the bishop asking for an annulment.
“Well, what does it say?” demanded Lady Cartwright impatiently.
Mr. Delaney handed her the letter. She fumbled in her bosom for her quizzing glass and then read it avidly. “It is as I thought,” she exclaimed. “He has run off with Mrs. Watkins.”
The Sins of Lady Dacey Page 12
