Secrets of a Scandalous Bride

by Sophia Nash

  Sarah grasped her hand. “You do not have to make a decision just yet, dearest.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.” Sarah’s visage gained a wistful expression. “Remember how my husband said that it was always bleakest before the dawn?”

  “And Father always replied that he had it all wrong—that it was most grim just before a battle.”

  Sarah smiled. “And Pierce would then remind him that battles typically began before dawn.”

  Elizabeth was certain she mirrored her friend’s pensiveness. “We were lucky, weren’t we? So very lucky to have them as long as we did.”

  Sarah looked down at their joined hands. “Indeed,” she murmured.

  It was hard to know what to say given the tension of the room. But any conversation was better than the silence and dread of waiting for Pymm to return to claim her. “I’m so happy for you, Sarah. Lord Wymith appears to be everything Ata suggested.”

  Sarah avoided her gaze. “His good character is without question. He is everything a gentleman should be.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said, feeling awkward. “And he obviously has fixed an interest in—”

  “No,” Sarah interrupted, her eyes tightly closed. “Please do not say it.”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth said. “I do not mean to discomf—”

  Sarah interrupted again, so unlike her usual behavior. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. It’s just that I cannot think of another—” She stopped abruptly before continuing in a rush. “Well, to me it seems impossible to link another man’s name with my own.”

  Elizabeth squeezed Sarah’s hands. “It’s not, dearest. The man I knew, the man who loved you, would not have wanted you to grieve for him forever.”

  “I could say the same to you, Elizabeth. Your father would not want you to continue on as we’ve done. He would want to see you settled, happy.” Her friend looked at their joined hands. “I fear I’m at fault for this predicament. I misguided you in our shock and misery after Badajoz. Perhaps…we were wrong.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Sarah paused. “Because for the last week, while I was in hiding at Ellesmere House, the general called on Ata and the others. He came every day to Helston House. Our friends relayed that Pymm was everything good and kind. Rosamunde said that she’d never seen a man so distraught with worry for you. That is the reason he gave for all the officers looking for you.”

  “Oh, Sarah,” Elizabeth replied. “He has soldiers posted in Portman Square and at all main roads leading from town. He will not allow me the freedom of a choice. Are those the actions of an honorable man?”

  “Perhaps they are the actions of a man consumed by guilt. He told Helston he feels responsible for not following through with the promise he made to your father of ensuring your safety and comfort. Indeed, a man whose love is so constant could quite possibly not be so awful as we thought. He could not have killed…Elizabeth, a spot of blood on a man’s glove means nothing in battle—you know that. Oh, I fear I was consumed with grief and perhaps in a fugue, not thinking very properly. I should have guided you better.”

  “Don’t, Sarah. You did everything for me. But General Pymm…” Uncertainty filled her for the first time. “It was the look on his face when he came to me after the battle and told me the awful news. Oh, I know I am being ridiculous.”

  Sarah’s gray eyes regarded her with love and concern. “No. Never that. But perhaps you should at the very least hear him out. If he did not love you so much, he would have chastised you terribly for that scene in St. George’s this morning.”

  “It is precisely because he did not chastise me that I worry. I’m but a challenge to him. He wants me because I am probably the only person who has ever denied him. It is only too bad I cannot make him tire of me and leave me be.”

  “No one here will suggest you marry him if you don’t want to, Elizabeth,” Sarah said softly. “And your happiness is my fondest wish. I long for you to have the sort of bliss I had with Pierce—even if it was too short.”

  “Oh, Sarah, I loathe Leland Pymm with every fiber of my being.”

  “Careful, dearest,” Sarah warned. “Hate is a powerful emotion often linked or confused with love.”

  “But not in this case, Sarah. I know I’m quite lacking in an ability to correctly judge others, but I am not confused on this point.”

  Sarah looked at her with compassion. “And what of Mr. Manning? Do you loathe him too?”

  Chapter 8

  One week later…

  GENERAL PYMM ENGAGED!

  In keeping with the romantic, whirlwind number of weddings in the wake of our recent great victory over France, our most noble hero General Leland Pymm revealed his secret long-standing engagement to the mysterious Miss Elizabeth Ashburton, a quiet, innocent young lady who apparently dislikes all public and private balls and evening entertainments. Let us hope this will change. Oh, can anything be more divinely romantic? Our dear Pymm secretly mourned and feared dead this angelic daughter of a captain during the hellish chaos of Badajoz. But now, as in all good fairytales, she will be wed and made a duchess before the clock strikes twelve.

  FASHIONABLE WORLD, THE MORNING POST

  Elizabeth lowered her trembling hand, which held the folded section of the newspaper, and would have had a long laugh if she had not been so grossly horrified. A quiet, innocent young lady who disliked entertainments? Was it not her devilish love of dancing and the entertainments offered to officers and their families that had led to her present difficulties in the first place?

  She could at least be thankful she was alone with a breakfast tray in her old chamber at Helston House. The previous few weeks’ trials paled beside this official announcement.

  Would this continually tightening noose ever give pause? It was quite obvious it did not matter what Elizabeth said or did. She felt very much like a bit of flotsam carried along in an unstoppable tidal wave of events.

  Pymm was executing his objective as if on a battlefield anew. Too late, she now saw his plan. While in private, he had tried to soften her by gently urging her to accept him; in the public eye, which she had avoided, he had gone forward with his ultimate plan, spreading romantic rumors of their purported devotion for many years. And English people everywhere rejoiced at the news of their romance, for there had been little to celebrate during so many bitter years of war.

  And while Pymm had not dared to hint to her again of her father’s purported crimes against the crown, there was never any question as to what he would do if she denied him. In front of her countrymen, he would assassinate her character and that of her father. Of that there was never any doubt. And all because of letters from her French mother’s relatives; letters her father had refused to show her but had insisted should be burned if anything happened to him. Oh, Papa.

  In her heart she knew he had never done anything to jeopardize England. He was the bravest man Elizabeth knew. She had always thought he had been in the midst of trying to save her mother’s famous Gallic relatives from the chaos of France, where changing governments, leaders, and ideology cut new paths as fast as a guillotine’s blade.

  But it was perhaps more serious than that if Pymm’s words were true. This first doubt of her father’s complete innocence felt like the worst sort of betrayal. She shook her head. No. He would not have placed her at such risk.

  And she had refused to confide in Sarah or anyone else, for she would not jeopardize their innocence. They must all remain in the dark and therefore blameless.

  Indeed, a person’s character was the most precious commodity. With a few choice phrases from Pymm, she could be held up as the ultimate example of corruption, betrayal, and dishonor. She hated the idea that her friends would feel honor bound to stand by her, to support her for the rest of her life, for she would be unable to find any sort of husband or reputable work. And that would be in the best of circumstances. The worst, the most likely, was that she would be carted off to Newgate on charges of treason.
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br />   She was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. And yet…within the recesses of her heart she knew she could not marry Pymm. At least, she thought she would not—even if it meant risking a complete descent in the world, or worse.

  Well, she would just force herself to learn the art of patience. Impatience was the failing that went hand in hand with her poor judgment. She would just have to wait for an opportunity to extricate herself. Long sieges would, in fact, become her speciality, she decided. Her father would have been proud of—

  A knock sounded insistently on her door and Ata burst in without waiting. The diminutive lady tugged at her overly long skirt and rushed awkwardly to one of the two windows in the chamber. She struggled with the window’s sash. “Oh, Pip! I saw my Pip.”

  Elizabeth threw back the bedclothes, grappled with her wrapper, and crossed the intricate marquetry of the polished wood floor. “Where?”

  “Botheration! Oh, these old windows,” Ata moaned.

  “Let me help,” Elizabeth said and jerked open the sash using all her strength.

  Before she could stop her, the dowager leaned half of her body out the window and half turned to face the sky. Elizabeth grabbed her elderly petite frame to stop her from falling.

  Mr. Brown rushed inside the chamber and barked, “Ata! Step away this instant.”

  Ata reached her gnarled hand up. “Oh, I see her! My dear Pip. Oh, Eliza, help me!”

  “No bird is worth it, Ata,” Luc St. Aubyn murmured from the doorway.

  “Make her step away, Luc,” Mr. Brown whispered hoarsely.

  The so-called Devil of Helston merely raised a brow. “You’ve never understood her, old man. The day Ata can be brought under control will be the day we lower her into the ground—and that will only be if we have a strong-enough harness in the coffin.”

  Ata ignored them. “Oh, Pip, come to me darling. I knew you’d survive all these months if I left enough seed on the sills.” She looked back into the room, her wrinkled face smiling. “Oh, John, do climb out here to fetch her.”

  Long-suffering John Brown crossed to the window but was stopped by the strong arms of the duke at the last moment. “Oh no, you don’t,” he warned darkly. “I won’t let you die in this fashion. A proper obituary would be too difficult to write if it included an attempt to save a damned canary.” With his other arm, the duke hauled his grandmother out of the window and tucked her under his arm, her feet paddling the air to no effect. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Grandmamma.”

  “Put me down, you hard-hearted brute!”

  “No. Not until you promise to be a good girl and never lean out of a window like that ever again.”

  “You are being ridiculous.” Ata managed to disengage herself from her grandson. “I was just showing all of you how far one can lean out the window without harm.”

  “I’ll catch the bird, if you like,” said the voice that had haunted Elizabeth’s dreams. The deep hum of its tones made her heart trip before she even turned to see him in her chamber.

  “What in hell are you doing here again, Manning?” the duke growled. “Have all the servants taken leave of their senses and gone on holiday?”

  Rowland Manning had glanced at everyone in the room aside from her. She drank in the sight of him. He appeared even more gaunt than usual, his face drawn and pale. He addressed Luc first. “Your main entry was open and I walked right in.”

  The duke groaned.

  “They’re probably hanging out of all the other windows, at a guess,” Mr. Brown supplied, without a hint of his usual gummy smile.

  “Mr. Manning,” Ata said shrewdly, “I would thank you for retrieving my canary for me. It appears you are the only man brave enough to help me—unlike the others here.” She darted a sour glance to John Brown.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” Rowland said and strode to the window. Examining the sill and then giving a quick glance skyward, he continued, “I’d need a few things. Netting—light in weight, twine, suet, seed, three sticks—two short and one long.”

  “Finally, a purpose for that cane of yours, Grandmamma,” Luc said archly.

  “I’ll see to the things you require, Mr. Manning,” Ata said sweetly, ignoring her longtime suitor and her grandson as she departed without a backward glance.

  Elizabeth studied the dejected expression of Mr. Brown, who stood between the two tall men.

  “You expect too much, Brownie,” Luc said quietly.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Mr. Brown returned.

  Rowland stood by stiffly.

  “You cannot expect her to be happy with your continued residence at Home House,” Luc said under his breath.

  “It’s a large house party,” Mr. Brown said defensively.

  “As we have here.”

  “I had hoped to have this conversation in private, Luc, if indeed at all. But perhaps it’s better out in the open.” Mr. Brown paused. “I returned from Scotland to see if your grandmother had changed, as her letters all promised.”

  “Changed?” Luc asked with a blank-card face. “Why on earth would you think a woman with so many years in her dish would be capable of change?”

  Mr. Brown appeared vastly discomforted. “She asked my forgiveness for all of her earlier high-handed ways.”

  “Well, you should count your blessings, for that is a first, old man,” Luc muttered. “What more could you want?”

  Mr. Brown appeared very ill at ease.

  “Spit it out, Brownie. This has festered far too long,” Luc insisted.

  “Your grandmother has a death grip on a grudge formed five decades ago. It colors our every conversation. Don’t ask me to explain it to you, Luc, for I won’t. I’m waiting for a sign that she intends to follow through with her promises to change her views on the past.”

  “Really?” Luc’s brows arched. “And if she does?”

  “Why,” he lowered his voice, “I would ask for the honor of her hand in marriage—for the third and final time.”

  Luc’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Do you promise? I shall have your word on it, now. And then I shall fetch her back this minute and have her on her knees, an apology and a promise on her lips.”

  “No, Luc,” Mr. Brown said sadly. “She must come to me on her own. And at this rate, I would not hold your breath. I’m for Home House now.” When Luc started to speak, Mr. Brown held up his hand. “No. I’m sorry I spoke at all. And you would do well not to speak to Ata of this for I shall know if you do. But I suppose all is for the best for it saves me the trouble of explaining why I shall return to Scotland shortly.”

  Luc appeared ready to argue further but then glanced at Rowland Manning. Elizabeth had no doubt Luc would see Mr. Brown in private at some future point to do his worst in an effort to keep his old friend from decamping.

  Silence reigned with Mr. Brown’s departure. Luc finally glanced first at her and then, narrowing his eyes, at Rowland, who crossed his arms over his chest and stood as still as a statue.

  “Why are you here really? What do you want?” Annoyance soaked the duke’s words.

  Elizabeth pursed her lips. It was as if she were watching a black bull paw the earth in front of an ancient, colossal tree. A tree that appeared so weathered that it would topple over with merely one good push.

  And still he did not look at her. “I want her to get dressed.”

  Her eyes bored into Rowland. When had he even noticed her state of dress?

  “And?” The duke’s voice was deceptively soft.

  “I came to offer my congratulations on her impending nuptials.”

  “Really?” Luc said. “And?”

  “And to deliver this.” He withdrew a large, heavy vellum note from inside his coat and handed it to the duke.

  As Luc moved his attention to the important-looking document, Rowland finally moved his gaze to Elizabeth. She sucked in her breath. He looked at her with such intensity despite the heavy evidence of fatigue surrounding his eyes. He recolle
cted himself and returned his gaze to the duke.

  “Well?” Rowland asked. “Will you accept?”

  “It isn’t as if I have a choice,” Luc replied acidly. “One does not ignore a direct invitation from the Prince Regent.”

  “I shall trust you to inform—”

  Luc interrupted. “It doesn’t take a bloody nodcock to figure out you’re behind this.”

  “Good to know you’re not a bloody nodcock, then,” Rowland replied.

  “But one has to wonder why you’re so quick to throw her”—he nodded in her direction—“into Pymm’s path. He is sure to be there too.”

  “So you don’t approve of him?” Rowland asked, leaning casually against the grate’s mantel.

  “He’s a better candidate than”—Luc paused—“others.”

  “Really? I didn’t know there were others.”

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt the wedding planning,” Elizabeth inserted, peevishly, “but would you mind very much telling me what this is about?”

  “An invitation to stay at Windsor Castle with the royal party for the four days of Ascot races,” Luc said with exasperation. “We’re to leave tomorrow.”

  “I would have a word with Elizabeth now.”

  Luc barked out a laugh. “Not on your life, Manning. I barely can tolerate the idea of you alone with Ata’s damned canary, let alone one of the females residing under my roof.”

  “She was under my roof not so long ago.”

  “And if you were a gentleman, you would have forgotten that fact the moment she left your protection.”

  Rowland shook his head. “How many sodding times do I have to remind everyone that I am not a gentleman? Elizabeth, put on your gown. I have something to discuss with you of importance. In private.”

  Her heart leapt. Perhaps he had an idea of how to extricate her from—

  “Discuss it now. Here,” Luc insisted with an expression that brooked no argument.

  Rowland studied the duke. “You know, whatever you’ve heard about me is true, and actually much worse,” he said slowly.