“No, well, I thought not, of course.” She sighed, theatrically. “Honesty so rarely accomplishes anything. Subterfuge is generally much more effective, although frequently so fatiguing to plan!”
“The thing is that he might well come up with something,” I said. “But this is where I have to prove myself to him, I think. I already know he was willing to sacrifice for me. That he married me with no plan, but what about me?”
Cecy gave me a long look. “What about that party your mother is having to celebrate Cambourne’s return?”
“What about it?” I asked. “Did she send you a card?”
“Yes,” Cecy said. “She did, but I had to decline. One assumes that my mother will have tired of the footman by then and will be back. I am not bringing her to any more entertainments.”
As much as I would have liked Cecy there, I could hardly quibble with that decision. “Understandable,” I said. “But what about the party?”
“Do you think she has a plan?” she asked. “Something to force Cambourne’s hand?”
“Does she breathe?” I replied. “Of course she does.”
Cecy shrugged. “So let her.”
I stared at her. “Let my mother force him into staying married to me?”
“Why not?” she asked. “You want it. He wants it. Let her do the work for you.”
“I don’t know,” I said, thinking. “It seems the wrong way to go about it. If anyone is going to force Cambourne into having me, it should be me.”
“But perhaps that’s precisely the point. That is what you are willing to sacrifice to have him.” And then, before I could reply, she continued, “Unless, of course, this has more to do with resisting your mother’s wishes than with what you both want?”
I dropped my gaze. “It’s not that precisely,” I began. “It’s—”
“Pride, Gwen,” she reminded me. “And stubbornness. Your besetting sins.”
“Are you implying that I would be telling Cambourne more about my feelings for him if I allowed my mother to strong-arm him into having me?”
She smiled. “Perhaps it would be a good bargaining tool. He can prove he wants you by telling you this great secret. You can prove you want him by hopelessly, and publicly, compromising him—and yourself—during your mother’s dinner.”
“Not bad,” I had to admit. “But little does Mother know that she’s going to be forcing Milburn’s hand, because she really believes him to be Cambourne.”
“And?”
“And,” I said, sitting up straighter, “I’m thinking that to begin with, there’s absolutely no reason I shouldn’t stop by Cambourne House and convince Milburn to assist me.”
“How?” she asked. “I thought he was set against it.”
“Well,” I replied, “I am thinking that it cannot harm anything if I give Milburn a little taste of what life with me would be like, can it, Cecy?”
“Oh,” she said, looking pleased. “Now we are getting somewhere!”
26
In which I pay a visit to Bertie
“Hallo, Cambourne,” I said, after I had been announced and then ushered through the myriad corridors that led to the study where Milburn was sitting behind the huge mahogany desk that had no doubt belonged to his grandfather, and his grandfather, and his grandfather before him. It was a hideous behemoth of a thing, actually. One of the grandfathers definitely should have got rid of it years ago. I shivered and drew my shawl more tightly around me. God, but this house was miserable, almost miserable enough to make me falter in my determination to have its owner.
And it was not lost upon me that its ersatz owner did not look precisely overjoyed to see me at the moment. “Hallo, Gwen,” he said, irritably. “Curst ledgers.” He pushed them aside and shoved his hands through his hair, apparently oblivious to the damage he was doing to his coiffure. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” he asked before recalling his manners and standing.
I made my voice heavy with meaning. “I have come, Milburn,” I said, “to take my rightful place by your side. Give Cambourne back his ledgers, his problems, and his mistress. You can have me, after all.”
“Oh,” he said, eyeing me warily.
“And don’t worry, Milburn, I understand that you have been exhausted by Mathilde’s … knowing ways. Rest assured that I have been well instructed by my mama as to how a good wife is expected to summon all her fortitude and composure during The Act, thus avoiding acknowledging the horrors that are being perpetrated upon her body in the name of conceiving an heir. I shall,” I assured him, “have such perfect composure that you will barely know I’m there!”
His enthusiasm seemed somewhat tempered as he replied. “Oh. Good.”
“Yes,” I said, advancing a step on him. “I have come to see that you are correct. Cambourne needs his land, and you need me!”
“How so?” he asked.
“Look at you, Milburn,” I said. “Going through life, making nothing of yourself. And do you know why I think that is?” And then, without letting him reply, I continued: “It’s because you don’t have the right woman behind you! Helping you, championing you, planning for you, pushing you ever forward.”
“Oh,” he said, eyeing me with even more disfavor than before.
“Sit down, Milburn.” I placed a hand on his chest and more or less pushed him onto a miserably uncomfortable-looking chair. I stood over him. “First, you need a purpose. I have given this a great deal of thought, and I think Enclosures will do.”
“Enclosures?” he asked, looking up at me.
“Yes. The Enclosure Acts. It’s a fascinating area of agricultural legislation. Or so I think you will find when you are more conversant with the finer points. But the important thing is that we throw ourselves into this with devotion and vigor. I have taken the liberty of dashing off a letter to Mr. Stephen Fairfax-Lacy, a great crony of Cambourne’s and one of the foremost authorities in the country on the subject!”
He squinted up at me from the chair. “What gives here, Gwen?” he asked.
“As I’ve already told you, I am here to offer myself to you.”
“Believe it or not, I ain’t that stupid, Gwen,” he said. “What game are you playing at?”
Calling my bluff, was he? “You know, Milburn,” I said, loudly, “I do think that before we tell Cambourne about my decision, we ought to ensure that everything is nicely … tied up by making certain that there could be at least a chance that I am increasing. Do you not?”
“Suppose so,” he said, unenthusiastically.
“I do believe,” I suggested, “that we ought to go above-stairs right now and get to seeing about that before we tell Cambourne. Just so he has no means of objection, you understand.”
“Right now?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.” I frowned at him to imply that there was no time like the present. “I would think you would want to get about this quickly. And I have heard that gentlemen are always enthusiastic for this activity. As for myself, I intend to inventory the household linens in my head as per Mama’s recommendation.”
“How enticing,” he muttered gloomily.
“Mama is a great believer, you must know, in killing two birds with one stone.” I started for the corridor. “Well, let’s be quick about this. Efficiency! Which way is your bedchamber?”
He had yet, I noted, to stir from his chair. I turned around and put my hands on my hips. “Never tell me that you are lagging off the mark at this, too, Milburn?”
“All right, Gwen, sit down and cut line,” he said, and I went back into the room and took a seat opposite his. “It’s patently obvious that you are head over heels with Cambourne, and you no more want to run upstairs with me than I want to familiarize myself with the Enclosure Acts. Again, what game are you playing at?”
“I see we understand one another,” I said.
“Perfectly, m’fraid,” he replied. “So tell me what you’re really doing here.”
“Very well, Milburn. The th
ing of it is, that I’ve done a good deal of thinking over the last few weeks. Cambourne needs his birthright back. He can no more give it up than he can stop breathing, and he never truly intended to. And deep down, you know that, as does he. And besides,” I pointed out. “You hate it.” I motioned around. “This house”—I shuddered—“well, actually, who wouldn’t hate this house? The responsibilities, the details, the tedium—”
“The clothing!” he interjected, a spark of the old Milburn in his eyes.
“The clothing,” I agreed. “And I know that you’d dearly like nothing more than to give it up. But I also know that you’re furious at Cambourne, and you don’t want to do it without causing him distress.”
“That is true enough,” he replied steadily.
“Well, it seems that what I’m here to say is that either you do it, let him have his birthright back and let him have me and do your best to make Therèse a good husband (when you marry her, legally, this time) or I will do it. I’ll marry you, Milburn, and I’ll become just that type of wife, Enclosure Acts and all. Because you’re right, I do love your brother, and I’m fully prepared to walk away if he can only have one: me or his titles. That does not mean, however, that I won’t devote myself to making the rest of your life a misery.”
See? I had learned something from Mama!
“You really do mean that!” he sounded surprised. “His happiness is worth more to you than your own?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“But why should I care about that?” he asked.
“Because I know you, Bertie,” I said. “I’ve known you for a long time, and this isn’t like you. I understand that you are angry, but I don’t truly believe that you want to do this to Cambourne. Particularly since it is obvious that this arrangement is not making you happy either.”
“Well, I have said all along that I’m willing to take you and give him the titles.”
“Look, Bertie,” I said, leaning toward him. “We both love Cambourne. If you don’t love him enough, I will marry you, but I can more or less guarantee that it won’t be that easy, undemanding marriage you’ve always counted on.”
“What do you mean by that, Gwen?” he asked.
“There’s more out there and I know it now, Bertie. I’m not the same easy, undemanding person anymore. You know all that material on the Corn Laws that I read? I found it pretty interesting, actually. I wouldn’t mind writing your speeches.”
“Good Lord!” he said with real horror. “You are turning into your mother!”
“I think that’s the point, Bertie,” I said. “With you, that has the potential to happen because you’re not interested in a challenging marriage. You want an easy marriage, and that’s fine, but we’ll never really be happy together. Cambourne and I will.”
He looked at me very intently. “I’m not sure you’ll feel that way when you know what propelled us all into this mess in the first place.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m certain I will.”
“There’s no pretty way of putting it, I’m afraid, Gwen. He was blackmailed into it.”
I frowned at him. “Marrying me?” I asked. “But I thought that he was protecting you … Oh!”
“What?” he squinted at me.
“I am a complete idiot for not having figured this out sooner! Of course! He was protecting you, but then my parents found out about the blackmail and used it to their own advantage by threatening to reveal it if he didn’t marry me. Unless—” I looked up at him “—you don’t think they’re actually the ones doing it, do you?”
“I honestly do not know,” he said. “But doesn’t it bother you, Gwen? That he was forced to marry you?”
“Not particularly,” I said. “Because he never would have allowed it if he hadn’t wanted to. You said that yourself. They thought they were forcing him, but actually he was letting them.” I started to laugh. “No wonder he said that odd thing about what he had told me being a veritable love poem, though. But, Bertie, what on earth is the secret that they’re holding over him?”
“It’s my father,” he said, giving me an obstinate look. “He’s sending money to Mother’s relatives for that … Corsican monster, Boney, and someone’s twigged and is blackmailing Cambourne. Using the threat of revealing that to force Cambourne and me to journey to the Continent.”
“Your father supports him?” I asked, struggling to hide my surprise. “What he’s doing?”
Bertie shrugged. “Hard to say whether it’s really a philosophical decision,” he said. “The old boy’s half, if not completely, mad, but then, you know that. I think if it wasn’t for that fact, Cambourne would probably feel obligated to turn him over to the authorities rather than protect him. I don’t think any of the money has actually got to him, though, because as soon as Cambourne found out, he started arranging to have it intercepted. Still, even a rumor about this would be terribly damaging to that revered old family name.”
“Yes,” I said, as I stood and began gathering my things. “You are absolutely right, and we’ll just have to ensure that not even a hint of a rumor gets out. Now, this is what to do: Come to my parents’ tomorrow night fully prepared to admit in the end that you are Milburn, or else prepare yourself for becoming the country’s new foremost expert in Enclosures.”
“The frightening thing here, Gwen,” he said, “is that I absolutely believe you.”
“Good. Because it would be extremely foolish of you not to,” I said.
27
In which my parents hold a dinner party and I am forced to compromise my husband in the second-floor drawing room
“Thank you, Crewes,” I said, the next night, as I collected my shawl and reticule and headed for the stairs. I had prepared for my mother’s dinner as if going into battle. At the foot of the stairs, I ventured to the pier glass to check that my hair was still wound into the silver ribbon that Crewes had placed there. I’d not laid eyes upon Cambourne since the night he’d been in his cups, and I was not at all certain of what to expect. Certainly he’d not been in very good spirits when we had parted, but he seemed tonight to have rallied himself. “Evening, Gwen,” he said amiably as he descended the stairs, making minute adjustments to his cuffs.
He was not rigged out as Milburn this evening, nor was he truly garbed as himself. He was in black, with a white evening shirt, and a modest, although elegantly tied, cravat. His hair fell straight across his forehead and his eyes were, well, completely unreadable. His only concession to dandyism, in fact, was the violent green of his waistcoat. He bowed over my gloved hand. “You are looking very lovely this evening,” he said, as his gaze held mine. And then he straightened and turned away to pull on his own gloves.
Therèse drifted down the stairs, just then, a vision in sea-green tulle, trés décolleté, in a cloud of dark curls and scent. She winked at me as Cambourne turned to make his bows. In the carriage, the two of them made light conversation as I gazed out the window and worried.
It was apparent from the blaze of light and crush of carriages as we pulled up at my parents’ house, that this was no small, intimate dinner.
“Milburn,” my mother said, in cool tones, when he had made his bow. “How nice to see you.” And then she turned away to exclaim fulsomely over another new arrival.
His brow was raised as he turned to me. “I seem to have fallen considerably in your mama’s estimation,” he whispered to me.
“She believes you really are Milburn,” I whispered back. “I have disappointed her no end by accepting you.” And then we were separated as he was borne away by some cronies of Milburn’s. I circulated through the rooms, greeting friends and acquaintances and accepting proper introductions to those I’d not met before. I could not help but wonder what these same people would think of me later that evening. But that, I reminded myself firmly, was of no account to me.
I laughed politely, if somewhat absently, at Sir Reginald Blatcheley’s witticisms, even though I had heard all of them numerous times before. I w
aved to Myrtia, who was deep in conversation with James, and noticed Milburn in the corner with Cambourne’s friend Atherton. Milburn, I noted, had garbed himself quite similarly to Cambourne this evening. For the first time in a long time, I understood how easy it was for them to switch places at will, particularly at social events where one’s conversation with any one person was limited. The Lord Lieutenant from Hildcote told me quite a lengthy tale about a fox that escaped its pursuers and ended up under the bed in the Harleys’ second-best chamber. The Dowager Lady Grenham was deep into a digression on her bunions and their seasonal changes when we were summoned in to supper.
Mama had outdone herself. There were at least forty at table, and I will not bore you with the minutiae of the seating arrangements, except to tell you that I was between the Viscount Spenborough on my left, and old Lord Benjamin on my right. The real Cambourne was across the table from me, and Milburn was two down on my left. Cambourne was between Therèse and the lovely, but very fresh out of the schoolroom, Miss Venetia Lawson.
Milburn said to Cambourne, across the table, “Are you well, brother? You are looking just slightly, oh, I don’t know, not up to snuff this evening.”
Cambourne sipped his wine. “D’you think, Cambourne? Rothwell thinks me a genius. Verdigris and black,” he drawled. “Told me so earlier.”
“I agree that you are most splendid indeed, sir,” ventured Venetia Lawson.
Cambourne inclined his head. “Thank you, Miss Lawson, but do, please, call me Milburn, or Lord Bertie, if you prefer. But as it happens,” he said, languidly, “I must confess that of late, I can no longer find gentlemen’s apparel of consuming interest.”
“Never say so!” said Spenborough, looking up from his soup for the first time.
“Still look like a demmed man-milliner if y’ask me!” bellowed Lord Benjamin.
“I feel that having done my time, to quote Rothwell, as a visionary, leading my peers forth, I am ready for a rest,” said Cambourne, his eyes on Milburn. “And my wife has convinced me to turn my attention in other directions.”
The Accidental Duchess Page 28
