Veil of Honor

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  “Bedford has wronged the entire family with his slander,” Morgan added. “This is the only way.”

  The older man sighed. “I can see your point.”

  Bedford looked at the man, astonishment warring with the same sudden anger that had suffused his face last night. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?” he said. He turned his back on Will.

  Morgan shook his head and moved backward, out of range.

  Will put his back to Bedford and lifted the revolver up so all he needed to do was drop it into position. It would be faster, that way.

  “You’re a fool, Rothmere,” Bedford said, his tone vicious. “You think this will fix matters for the woman, only you’ll be dead and she’ll be alone. What does that fix?”

  “One!” the second called.

  Will took a step, as dismay wriggled beneath the iron-hard lid he had clamped down over his thoughts for the last twelve hours.

  “Two!”

  All Will could think of was Bridget. In his mind cascaded dozens, no, hundreds of moments with Bridget in them. Bridget in the pink dress with the purple highlights that had dropped his jaw the first time he had seen it. Bridget in the weaving shed, floating about with an elegant sweep of her train, speaking to weavers and dealing with suppliers and occasionally, glancing at Will with a little smile filled with enjoyment. Bridget with Elizabeth in her arms, whispering to the child. Bridget with her hair down, dressed in a lace wrapper, her chin up and her nose wrinkled.

  “Five!”

  Concentrate! Will shouted at himself. He gripped the pistol firmly and felt the slickness of sweat on his palm.

  “Six!”

  Bridget, the way he liked best…her body gleaming with exertion, her breasts rising and falling with the after effects of pleasure he had provided. The sultry, heavy-lidded look she always gave him, that seemed to both thank him and ask for more.

  “Seven!”

  His first glimpse of her in the chapel at St. Paul’s, trembling beneath the fine lace veil. Now he remembered how his heart had shifted, with a deep satisfaction that finally, she would be his…

  “Eight.”

  Stop this! Stop it! Focus, you fool!

  “Nine!”

  “I love her,” Will whispered, to hear the words out loud and acknowledge the truth in them. Morgan was right. Bedford was right. What Will had begun to suspect was true. He loved her.

  “Ten!”

  I love you, Bree.

  Will spun and fired.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bridget remembered nothing of the train journey to London. She didn’t sleep and she didn’t eat. The conductor had pulled out the bed for her and made it. Bridget instead sat upon the narrow folding seat in the opposite corner of the compartment, clutching the crumpled telegram in her hand, with her head turned to watch trees rush past the window.

  COME TO LONDON AT ONCE. URGENT.

  MORGAN

  She had obeyed the summons without pause to consider the implications, frantically packing a valise, making arrangements for Elizabeth’s care with Mrs. MacDonald, for the house with Bakersfield and for the weaving shed with Adele Adair, before climbing onto the six o’clock sleeper train.

  Once the train had pulled out of the Inverness Station, though, the need for haste dissipated, leaving her a moment to collect her thoughts. Then the worry had settled in.

  Why had Morgan sent the wire and not Will?

  What had happened to Will?

  She couldn’t think of a single thing that might give her a clue about why Morgan had sent such a curt and urgent command.

  Had Will fallen ill? Had he had an accident?

  Was someone else in the family ill and Will too distracted to send for her himself?

  Perhaps…maybe Aunt Elisa had grown ill once more…only Morgan would have directed Bridget to travel to Sussex, not London.

  After hours of circling around the possibilities, Bridget’s thoughts coalesced into the single cold fact.

  Something was wrong. Something has happened to Will.

  Despite how much as her aching heart and mind wanted to know what had happened, nothing would deliver the news to her until she arrived in London tomorrow morning.

  So Bridget waited through the long night, unable to sleep and uninterested in anything else.

  She rose stiffly from the seat as the train pulled into Euston Station shortly after five-thirty the following morning and pulled her valise from the rack without waiting for the conductor. She moved onto the train platform, her thoughts frozen over.

  Morgan waited there for her. He hurried over to her and took the valise. “I have a cab waiting outside,” he said, his deep voice a soft murmur.

  Bridget nodded and walked beside him, through the cavernous entrance, out into the crisp morning air. Morgan took her arm. “Over here,” he said, guiding her to a hansom waiting at the curb.

  She waited only until the cab was underway, then turned to Morgan. “What has happened to Will?”

  Morgan took her hand. “I’ve been searching for a way to tell you since I sent the wire.” His jaw flexed. “Will was shot, Bridget.”

  She flinched at the sheer unexpectedness of it. “Is he dead?” she made herself asked.

  “He is badly hurt, I am afraid. The bullet hit him in the belly, which the doctor says is one of the worst places to be shot.”

  She moaned. It was not the worst of news, although it may as well have been. “Are you taking me to see him now?” she asked. She could barely raise her voice above a whisper. Her throat ached. So did her eyes. “Have you sent for Vaughn and Elisa? They should be here, too. And the girls and Jenny and Jack.”

  “I sent a wire to Marblethorpe at the same time I sent yours. Their train arrives at ten.” His dark eyes were steady. “Is there anyone else you think should come?”

  Bridget choked. “Only everyone,” she whispered. “Oh, Morgan!”

  He squeezed her hand and held it until the carriage pulled up in front of a red brick house she didn’t know. She had to think to put together where she was. “This is Dane’s house?” she asked.

  “There is no one at the house on Park Lane,” Morgan said, helping her down to the pavement. “Even Peter is staying…elsewhere. Dane insisted.”

  The tall butler who opened the door for them wore a somber expression. He nodded. “Lady Bridget. Mr. Davies. Everyone is in the drawing room.”

  “Thank you, Mayerick,” Morgan told him. He guided Bridget toward the open space between two pillars that marked the beginning of the room beyond.

  There were several people in the room, including Dane and Ben, sitting on either side of Sharla.

  Sharla scrambled to her feet and hurried to Bridget, her arms out. Her eyes were red and as she came closer, they spilled fresh tears. She held Bridget, her arms tight.

  Bridget trembled. “Where is Will?” she asked, her voice cracking.

  “I’ll show you,” Sharla whispered, dashing her tears with the back of her hand. She took Bridget’s hand and led her upstairs and along the broad passageway, then opened one door at the end.

  She held it open for Bridget.

  Bridget stepped inside and Sharla shut the door on her again.

  Peter stood at the window, peering out onto St. James’ Square, a tall and unmoving figure. Bridget barely noticed him, for Will laid in the bed beside the window.

  Will’s eyes were closed and his face was white. The covers rested over him, smoothed out and perfectly folded, which told Bridget someone else had pulled them up and that Will had laid unmoving since then.

  She hurried forward, her eyes blurring. She blinked to clear them and put her hand against Will’s face. “Will.”

  He didn’t move or respond.

  Bridget did cry, then. She sank onto the chair beside the bed, put her arm upon the bed next to Will and shed hard, hurting tears.

  “He will live,” Peter murmured. His hand settled on her shoulder. “The doctor was here all night. Before he left he
assured me Will would live.”

  Bridget lifted her head. “Tell me what happened, Peter. Explain it to me. He came to London to see about a business matter. How could he go from that to this?”

  Peter pulled a stool over to the bed and settled beside her. “The bank appointment was where it began,” he said. He told her everything, sometimes repeating himself, as if he was working out why it had all happened for himself. Sometimes his gaze shifted to Will. Otherwise, he studied his hands.

  Bridget wanted to tell him he had no reason to feel guilty, only her own guilt stole any other concerns from her mind. “I am the reason he lies there?” she asked, when Peter was done. “This is all my fault?” Horror chilled her and made her shake.

  “Not because of you,” Peter said firmly. “If there is any fault to be laid, lay it at Bedford’s feet. He orchestrated this, from the very beginning.”

  “But if I had not…if Taplow…if I had not married Will, then he would have felt no need to defend me with a duel. God, Peter! The first sin was mine!” She closed her eyes.

  Peter lifted her chin, forcing her to open her eyes. “Do not play this game, Bridget. If you must portion out guilt, then Jack and Jenny should take some. If they are to carry any blame, then some must fall upon Jack’s odious mother and her demanding ways. Or perhaps we should blame Sharla for giving into her mother’s wishes and thereby putting even more pressure on Jack.”

  Bridget sniffed and wiped her cheeks. “There is no end to it, is there?”

  “And no beginning, either,” Peter said. “Blame is useless.” He hesitated. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but Will saved the family—not just you. A spoiled reputation can rot an entire family inside a season. Will found a way to root it out that didn’t involve public scandal and sensational stories in newspapers. Society may speculate. It is all they can do, now.” Peter gave her a strained smile. “There has been a steady stream of visitors to the house since yesterday morning, as the news spread. All of them enquired after Will…and after you, too.”

  Bridget swallowed. “What happened to Bedford?”

  “A minor flesh wound on the arm.” Peter scowled. “He will wish that Will had shot straighter, in the days ahead. No one who called yesterday spoke highly of him, if they bothered to speak of him at all. Word has passed about his scheming.” He got to his feet. “I’ll leave you with Will for a while.”

  * * * * *

  Bridget eased Will’s unresponsive hand out from under the covers and held it in hers, while she thought about what he had done and marveled at it.

  Will had been prepared to give up his life to save her and the family. It was the ultimate selfless act among so many he had taken in the last few years. He had watched out for her as she grew up, then married her when she faced disaster.

  In return, Bridget had turned her nose up at everyone in the family, including Will. Every man in the family who was currently in London had helped Will resolve this, despite knowing that Bridget was as guilty as Bedford had painted her.

  How could she have been so selfish and blind? How could she not have seen how wonderful this family was?

  How could she have thought any other man at all could possibly be a better man than those of the Great Family?

  How could she have failed to see Will for the generous man he was?

  She laid her head upon the covers once more and cried pathetic, self-indulgent tears, as her guilt and her shame ate at her.

  How could she look anyone in the family in the face after this?

  * * * * *

  Bridget did not leave Will’s side for two days, even when the entire Marblethorpe household arrived and came in one at a time to see Will and speak to Bridget and hold her.

  Elisa’s embrace was the hardest to bear, for Elisa’s eyes were as red-rimmed as Sharla’s, yet her words were forgiving and kind.

  As Bridget wept, Elisa put her head on her shoulder and patted her back. “It is not a life well lived, if there are no mistakes in it, my dear,” she murmured. “Mistakes are how we learn and grow. Or did you think you must be perfect?”

  Bridget hiccupped and rubbed at her eyes. “I wanted to be,” she said. “I would be perfect for Will.”

  Elisa’s smile was knowing. “He already knew you were not perfect, yet he married you just the same because he saw what I can now see. You are a good woman, Bridget. You should not let the world convince you otherwise, with its petty judgements and opinions. Will would not marry anyone less than a good woman. Look how long he waited to find one!”

  Bridget drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t think I am that woman,” she admitted.

  “Which is part of your charm, my dear.” Elisa pressed her back into the chair. “I will get you some tea and a sandwich. You are quite pale and you will need your strength. Annalies is insisting she inspect Will’s wound and when she is at full force, it often feels as though a gale-force wind has entered the room.” Elisa smiled. “She is worried and that is how Annalies expresses her worry—by ordering everyone about and making things go right. Between her and the doctor, Will has no choice but to get better.”

  Feeling a little better, Bridget returned to her chair, to await Annalies’ visit, which did end up leaving her breathless…yet also with building hope, for Annalies’ prognosis was that Will was lucky.

  “He will wake in a day or so,” Annalies predicted. “Possibly cursing himself for being such a terrible shot, too.”

  Bridget’s mother, Natasha, was just as much of a force as Annalies. “I won’t insist you sleep, darling daughter. I know you better than that. You must eat, though. I will have a tray sent up. I sent Sharla to bed with a sleeping powder, for she is quite beside herself over this. I’ve made sure everyone else does not wither away for lack of nourishment…do you know there are over twenty people in the house at the moment, all waiting for Will to wake up? Lilly and Jasper will be here before four, too.” Natasha smiled at the man in the bed. “You may have to break that news to him gently, Bridget. Will hates causing a domestic fuss.”

  One by one, the family all stepped into the room and in hushed voices, or firm ones, each gave Bridget a different sort of comfort. Even Raymond, in his own way, provided a pearl of wisdom that had escaped her until that moment…or perhaps she had never listened properly.

  Raymond crouched down by her chair, studying Will. “If force of will has anything to do with it, then Will has no choice but to mend, because the family wants it so. You and I can claim to belong to this family through blood, although that is the weakest link among us. We’ve both married back into it and that isn’t the strongest tie, either.” He gave her a small smile.

  “It’s love…” Bridget breathed.

  He nodded. “Something most of society would call contemptible and fit for nothing but poets and dreamers, yet it is the burning heart of this family and its greatest strength.” Raymond’s smile grew. “Just don’t let Peter and the younger ones know that. They’re not ready to hear it yet.” He got to his feet and smoothed her hair from her face, in a fashion that was pleasantly father-like. “Besides, it is much more fun finding out for oneself.” He winked and left her alone.

  Will showed signs of stirring by late the following day, not long after the doctor had left after declaring Will was through the worst of it.

  Bridget felt as though she held her breath for three hours, watching him for the smallest evidence that he was coming round. She thought the first thing she would see would be the blue of his eyes beneath slowly lifting lids.

  Instead, he squeezed her hand, his fingers stroking over hers. “Bree…” he breathed. “I would know you were beside me even if I was blind.” He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed it against his lips, wincing a little at the movement.

  Bridget pressed her lips together to hold her composure. “Will…Oh, Will, you scared me so badly!”

  His eyes opened a crack. “I’m sorry for that.”

  “No, no! You mustn’t be sorry for anything, W
ill. Oh, I’ve been such a fool!” She slid off the chair and knelt by the bed, trembling. “Can you ever forgive me? For all the things I have done. In my arrogance, I didn’t see…I couldn’t see how much I love you, until I nearly lost you.”

  Will turned his head to look at her, the blue of his eyes glittering. “Then we’re both complete and utter fools, my sweetest Bree. I couldn’t shoot straight for the blinding realization that I have loved you…forever, it feels like. And here I rest as result.”

  She froze, her heart stopping. “You do? I thought…I didn’t think you wanted to love anyone.”

  Will’s grip on her fingers tightened. “I didn’t want to love anyone but you and you didn’t want me. I lied to everyone and I lied to myself most of all. It was easier that way.”

  She pressed her lips to his fingers. “I do want you, Will.”

  “Then please kiss me properly and convince me of it,” he said.

  “I might hurt you.”

  “Your kisses could never hurt me. Come here.” His arms were strong, despite his wound. He drew her to her feet and she bent so she did not press against him and kissed him.

  He held her face, deepening the kiss, until she ran out of breath and was forced to pull away, breathing hard. “I wouldn’t believe you were injured at all, except that I have seen the wound,” she said.

  Will’s smile was touched with the heat she knew well. “I will be back on my feet so fast, my love, your head will spin. I have reason to recover as swiftly as possible.”

  She sat on the chair as she remembered. “Oh, lord, Will, there are twenty people downstairs, anxious to speak to you as soon as you wake.”

  “Twenty?”

  “Actually, twenty-two. Lilly and Jasper came down from Yorkshire, as well.”

  Will’s grip on her hand tightened. “Not just yet,” he begged. “Let it be the two of us, just for a while.”

  Bridget held his hand until he drifted into restorative sleep. Then she went downstairs to tell everyone Will had woken and to thank each and every one of them, one by one.

  Chapter Eighteen