by Wilma Counts
She would discuss it with Trevor when he returned.
Trevor had given up his quarters in London as an expense he could ill afford. However, he refused to lodge at the Wyndham town house, knowing something of the reception he was about to have there. He would stay with Theo for the short time he intended to be in town.
It was with a great deal of trepidation that he climbed the stairs to Wyndham House. As he entered, Heston, the butler who had known him in short coats, gave him a sympathetic look and directed him to the drawing room above.
“Psst. Trevor.” Melanie gestured from the doorway of a reception room off the foyer.
“Mel. Were you waiting for me? Why are you not with the rest of the inquisition?”
“Oh, Trevor, that is the exact word for it. They are in rare form. Why, Papa and Mama have actually joined forces for once. And Gerald is being even more pompous than usual.”
“And Marcus?”
“He is here, too. Papa insisted on a united front, you see.”
“Oh, Lord.” Trevor felt his heart sink. “Well, come along. I guess you will be my only ally.”
“I cannot. Papa has forbidden my presence. Oh, Trevor, I am so worried. Truly, I have never seen both our parents in such a rare taking—together!” She hugged him. He hugged her back and released her.
“Thanks for the warning.—Oh! By the bye, how did it go with Sheffield?”
A soft light came into her eyes. “Wonderfully. Aunt Gertrude was absolutely brilliant. Now Mama is championing Drew as exactly the sort of young man I should encourage.”
“Good. I want to hear all about it, but first . . .” He gestured above.
“Good luck, Trev.” She kissed him on the cheek.
He squared his shoulders and climbed the stairs to find his parents and two older brothers in the drawing room.
“There you are, at last,” the earl growled. “Close the door. We do not need the servants hearing any more of this sordid affair than they already have.”
Trevor noted that his mother, fashionably dressed in her favorite shade of blue, shared a settee with the rigid, superior Gerald. Marcus, leaning casually against the mantel, gave him a friendly nod which might have been intended to be sympathetic. His father sat in a wing chair and directed him to its mate placed to face the three family members already seated. An inquisition, all right, Trevor thought.
“Now. Suppose you start explaining yourself, young man.” His father’s black, unrelenting gaze bore into him from beneath heavy brows.
Trevor was glad he could return his father’s gaze. A younger Trevor had invariably found that cold stare most intimidating. “Exactly what is it you would like me to explain, my lord?”
Gerald snorted impatiently. The countess dropped her demeanor of fashionable ennui to say, “Trevor, darling, it is all over town. The subject of every drawing room that matters. I cannot go anywhere . . .”
“So? Is it true? Did you indeed marry the indigent ward of some hanger-on?” Gerald asked, drumming his fingertips on the arm of the settee.
“I married Miss Woodbridge.” Trevor intended to minimize explanation.
“And you did so after a night of drinking and gambling?” his father asked.
“Actually, it was a few days later, Father.”
“Stop mincing words with me,” his father ordered. “Did you or did you not marry this chit as the result of a wager in a card game?”
“Yes, sir. I did.”
“Oh, Trevor, no-o,” his mother wailed.
“What possessed you to do such a truly stupid thing?” Gerald demanded, his tone increasingly belligerent. “Had you no thought at all of the family name? You have made us the butt of laughter throughout the ton. The Mortons are deeply shocked.”
“I doubt my indiscretions—whatever they may be—could seriously damage the staid, upright view the ton holds of the noble heir to the Earl of Wyndham.” Trevor felt the same embarrassed resentment he had felt as a youngster when taken to task by the more autocratic of his older brothers. “Nor is Miranda Morton likely to refuse your suit on my account.”
“Nevertheless, you had done much better to have considered your own position as a son of the Wyndham peerage,” Gerald retorted.
“Stop this bickering.” The earl slashed his hand in a cutting motion. “The first question is—is the marriage legal? Trevor?”
“Yes, I believe it is. Special license. Properly ordained clergy. Witnesses. I am of age. Of course it is.”
“I just do not understand how this could have happened,” his mother said with a dramatic sigh.
“I—it was a debt of honor.” Trevor was embarrassed by the inadequacy of this explanation.
“Honor!” his father raged. “There was a great deal of dis-honor in this affair. You, son, were the veriest gull—duped by that conniving Fiske and his pal Latham. And aided by the very questionable Fitzwilliam.”
“You walked right into it,” Gerald sneered.
“And now we Jeffries are the subject of such talk. And—and—even cartoons in the newspaper!” His mother put a handkerchief to her eyes.
“Is this true, Marcus?” Trevor turned to the one from whom he felt at least some empathy.
“I am afraid so, Trev.”
“Show him,” Gerald said without an ounce of compassion.
Marcus lifted a clipping from a table and handed it to Trevor. The cartoon was a vicious piece of work depicting a card table with caricatures of three players—unmistakably Fiske, Fitzwilliam, and himself. The figure meant to be Trevor was clearly intoxicated. Behind the figure of Fiske was a buxom lass spilling over the top of her dress. She leered at the drunk young man. But what was really shocking was that the artist had depicted the woman as obviously pregnant. A balloon caption had her saying, “But, Uncle, I must have a husband—any husband.” The uncle responded, “Coming right up, my child.” The only comment of the young drunk with Trevor’s features was “Hic!” The cartoon was labeled “The Wager.”
Staring at this hideous distortion, Trevor felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard and glanced around to see harsh, accusing glares from three members of his family. “I . . . I . . . it was not . . .”
Marcus squeezed Trevor’s shoulder. “Cartoonists sell only if they exaggerate, but—”
“But,” Gerald cut in curtly, “this is essentially true, is it not?”
“Yes . . .” Trevor’s voice was small. Then he jerked upright. “No. No, it is not. It is a malicious libel of Caitlyn.”
“How so?” Gerald sneered.
“Caitlyn is—she—uh—she was—a virgin.” He felt himself actually blushing. “I apologize for such plain speaking, my lady.”
“And how do you know this?” his father demanded.
“Perhaps I should leave the rest of this discussion to you gentlemen.” As the countess rose, those seated rose as well to bow her out. “I am most disappointed in you, Trevor,” was her parting comment.
“How do you know?” his father repeated when she was gone and they sat again.
Trevor felt his blush deepening. “Surely everyone in this room knows the answer to that question.”
Gerald gave another derisive snort. “What everyone in this room knows—with the possible exception of you, Trevor—is that women have been faking virginity since time began.”
Trevor glared at him. As they were growing up, Trevor had always hated the way Gerald delighted in declaring some treasured belief of the younger children to be false or silly.
“All it takes,” Gerald went on, “is a little pig’s blood or chicken blood in a vial—easily secreted in the bedclothes. That, and a bit of clever acting.”
Their father shook his head. “I cannot believe a son of mine could be quite so damned naive.”
“But Caitlyn is not like that. She is sweet . . .” Trevor not only felt it a duty to defend her, he truly believed her to be sweet and chaste.
“Is it true that you never actually met the girl be
fore the wedding?” his father asked in a calmer tone.
“Well, yes, but—”
“So you have even now known her for how long? Ten days? A fortnight?”
“About that.”
“So you do not really know her at all well, do you?”
“No.”
Could it be true? Could Caitlyn have manufactured that scene at the inn? He did not want to believe it of her. But what did he truly know? And had he not been in an alcoholic haze for two days by then? How observant could he have been?
“Perhaps you do not know much about your bride at all.” Gerald picked up another paper from the table. “Her father was a country vicar in the Lake District. Lost his post and became a curate up north—near Durham—Monksford, actually. Our Uncle Hermiston’s chief property was there.” Aunt Gertrude, Trevor thought, as Gerald pressed on. “When her father died, the girl went to live with the Fiskes, where she ran wild over the countryside. She set her sights on Viscount Latham’s son, but Latham put a damper on that. Apparently not soon enough—as you can see from that cartoon.”
“Where do you come by this information?” Trevor asked, truly angry now. Most of his anger centered on Gerald as the bearer of such tidings, but in truth, he did not know precisely where his fury should be directed.
“I merely asked around,” Gerald said with an airy wave of his well-manicured hand. “It is common knowledge.”
“Common. Yes,” Trevor said. But he recognized the basic facts of Caitlyn’s background. Had she taken the Latham heir as a lover? Had he been the “puppy” outside the church that day?
“There is more,” Gerald said. “Marcus, you tell him about his good friend Fitzwilliam.”
Marcus shifted uneasily. “I am sorry, Trevor. Fitzwilliam has been suspected for some time of having lucky streaks at the table that were a bit too convenient.”
“Suspicions are not proof.” Trevor felt compelled to defend one he had considered a friend.
“He and a confederate were caught the other night. There was no doubt. No equivocation. He fled the country.”
“I cannot believe . . .”
“It is true, though,” Marcus said softly. “The pattern of their cheating was consistent with what witnesses reported of your game with Fiske.”
“Oh, God.” Despair washing over him, Trevor buried his face in his hands.
“After that racing fiasco, I assumed you had learned your lesson.” The Earl of Wyndham sounded thoroughly disgusted with his youngest son. Trevor maintained a stoic expression, not wanting his father to know he had struck home. “Obviously, I was mistaken, for this latest escapade truly is beyond enough.”
“Something must be done to quell the gossip,” Gerald said.
“I have left town. What more can you want of me?”
“Frankly, I would have you out of the country,” Gerald replied.
“Father? Marcus? Do you feel as he does?”
“Trevor, I am that far”—the earl held his thumb and forefinger in an extremely small measure—“from disowning you entirely.”
Marcus shook his head. “I just do not know, Trev. Perhaps it would help if you were out of the country while we try to sort this out.”
“But . . . that smacks of running away. Whatever else I may be, I am no coward.”
“No one accused you of being a coward,” Gerald said dismissively, “just a fool. Getting you away will allow more level heads to handle the situation.”
“Handle—how?”
“You need not be concerned with the details.” Gerald sounded as he might in speaking to a small child.
“I damned well do need to be concerned.” Trevor felt long-suppressed anger rise at Gerald’s supercilious attitude.
“All right. Hold on,” his father said with a calming gesture. “How would you feel about traveling on the Continent? Italy and Greece are safe enough, despite Bonaparte’s ambitions.”
“I don’t know . . .” Trevor tried to sort out his jumbled thoughts. He was being hit with too much at once.
“Perhaps Russia? Or the colonies?” Marcus suggested.
“I do not know. I need time to think.” He was overwhelmed by their suggestions—and even more by their united wish to be rid of him. Never in his life had he suffered such total rejection. “What . . . what is to happen to Caitlyn?”
His father snorted with disdain. “No doubt that bit of baggage will be glad to accept a munificent offer to free you.”
“A bribe? I do not think Caitlyn would readily accept a bribe.” Trevor recalled a certain degree of pride in his young bride.
“Oh, come now. That was undoubtedly the plan all along. Why else would she be party to such a sordid affair?” Gerald asked.
“What do you mean by ‘free’ me?”
“Marcus? You are the law expert in the family,” Gerald said.
Trevor knew that Marcus had studied law at the Inns of Court after leaving university.
“Well . . .” Marcus began hesitantly, “an annulment is probably out of the question. Trevor has admitted the marriage was consummated.”
Trevor felt himself blushing again.
“So what about a divorce?” Gerald demanded.
Marcus shook his head thoughtfully. “That could be very complicated—especially if she should object.”
“I doubt she has funds of her own, and God knows Fiske would never part with the blunt to fight us in a court battle,” Gerald observed.
“True. But it could get very messy anyway. Of course, it is easy enough to buy necessary witnesses to prove ‘criminal conversation.’ ” His tone suggested Marcus found this idea distasteful.
“Crim . . . con . . . ? You want to accuse Caitlyn of adultery?” Trevor found this idea appalling.
“What does it matter if you were cuckolded before or after the vows?” His father’s blunt question set Trevor aback.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Hmm. There are other considerations . . .”
“What?” The earl obviously wanted a solution, not “considerations.”
“All court proceedings would be published—and probably reprinted in penny pamphlets. The scandal would explode instead of dying down.”
“And what else?” Gerald persisted.
“And, assuming she is with child, the babe would be born within Trevor’s marriage. The child would, as far as the law is concerned, be his legitimate offspring. Fiske wins that one.”
“It would not be the first time in our family history that a Jeffries man has had to deal with a bastard in his nursery,” the earl declared in what Trevor thought to be an especially bitter tone.
“My lord?” Trevor’s gaze engaged both his father and Gerald. “I do not mean to be disrespectful, but I would ask that you temper your language. Both of you. Caitlyn is, after all, my wife—”
Gerald gave a derisive “Hmmph” but was otherwise silent.
“Quite right,” his father said, looking a bit chagrined. “However, we are trying to solve a family crisis here. And, I might add, it is a crisis of your making.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So—Marcus—have you a recommendation?” the earl asked.
“If Trevor agrees”—Marcus looked at his younger brother—“he could absent himself. A legally valid marriage may be easily—and I might add quietly—dissolved if it is not consummated for two years or more.”
“Two years?” Trevor groaned.
“If you are out of the country, who could possibly say you had been in her bed?” Gerald was apparently striving for a reasonable tone.
“I . . . I . . . will need to think about this,” Trevor murmured.
“Well, as you do so,” his father said sternly, “think also on this: If you choose to remain in England, your allowance stops as of now. If you go, you may continue to enjoy the benefits of your current allowance abroad.”
“What about . . . about my wife?”
“What about her? She may fend for herself. You may leave her at Atherton if you s
o choose. That property is yours, after all. I would guess a clever lass like that will move on soon enough.” The earl reached for his brandy glass.
“As soon as she is aware that there will be no access to the Wyndham fortune, you may be sure she will be gone.” Gerald sounded ridiculously smug.
Trevor rose, feeling thoroughly beaten. “I shall give you my answer tomorrow.”
Five
On leaving Wyndham House, Trevor initially wandered the streets, caught up in thought. He wanted to reject the notion that Caitlyn had been a party to what amounted to a conspiracy against him, but his father was right. He did not know her—had never met her until that meeting on the church steps.
Yes, it was possible that ridiculous scene on their wedding night had been contrived by a clever actress. Would a clever actress not have handled things with a deal more sophistication, though? Or was that part of the cleverness?
Most of Gerald’s information corresponded with what Caitlyn herself had told him. Logical reasoning would indicate that the rest was true, too. Damn her! Innate honesty, however, forced him to admit to his own role in the affair. Her uncle’s success had been ensured by Trevor’s gullibility.
Finally arriving on Theo’s doorstep, he surprised even himself by refusing his friend’s offer to share a bottle of brandy. Instead he accepted a glass of sherry, which he sipped absentmindedly as he related the newest developments to Captain Ruskin.
“So what will you do?” Theo asked.
“Go to the colonies, I suppose. My father has a cousin in Philadelphia. Should be able to occupy myself for a couple of years.” But his lack of enthusiasm was clear even to his own ears.
“What about your property here?”
“Two more years of neglect will not make that much difference. There is a steward. He has little imagination, but he is adequate.”
“What about your . . . uh . . . your wife?”
“I honestly do not know what to do, Theo. I feel some responsibility for her. I doubt her family will do anything to help her. You saw how eager Fiske was to be rid of her.”
“Yes, I did.”
