Gertie was back in London, Phineas contemplated. She had been back for some time and had made no effort to contact him.
“Here now, why does such news upset you?”
Phineas did not answer. It was as he had feared. The regret had set in. She had allowed herself a few days indulgence but no more. He knew it would be no easy battle against her sensibility and her misplaced dedication to self-sacrifice, but he had held out hope that she had developed more tender feelings towards him and that those feelings might prove the stronger.
“Phineas, you did not seduce the Countess?” Robert pleaded.
He looked at his brother’s fallen face.
“Oh God, you have. Damnation, Phineas!” Robert threw up his hands. “I might as well have Mr. Hancock tear up the papers for surely she will despise you when you are done with her.”
“She will not jeopardize the mining venture. She is not that sort of woman.”
“Then her husband surely will when he learns of this.”
Phineas pressed his lips together grimly. “Alexander will not know.”
“Your affairs always become public knowledge. You ought to know how servants talk.”
“There were no servants,” Phineas murmured. “Save for Francis.”
“What the devil do you—no, no, I need no details. If you found the Countess such a sensible woman, why did you feel compelled to seduce her?”
“If you did not want her seduced, why task me with the responsibility?”
“I certainly did not urge you to lift her skirts!”
“Robert, I did not seduce her to win her approval.”
Robert twisted his face in a strange form. “Then why? Because you can! Because it is your nature to attempt the dastard!”
Phineas stared into the distance, remembering his conversation with Georgina that night after Vauxhall. How was it that women could detect the truth so easily? He turned back to look at Robert, who was shaking his head as he stared at the ground. He wondered if he should deal another blow to the poor fellow.
Robert straightened. “I retract my gratitude to you!”
“I am fond of her, Robert.”
The words took a moment to sink in. When they did, Phineas could see the blood drain from Robert’s face.
“Of Lady Lowry?” Robert asked weakly.
“You look as if you need to sit down.”
He guided his brother to a stone wall encasing a small courtyard. He remained standing while Robert sat down.
“Odd’s blood, Phineas,” Robert said, his mind still turning. “Why Lady Lowry?”
“The whim of Love and the cruelty of Fate.”
“Cruelty?”
“That I should fall in love with a woman I cannot have.”
“That has hardly stopped you before.”
Yes, Phineas thought to himself, but this time it was different. This time he wanted Gertie all to himself. He certainly had no desire to share her with Alexander Farrington.
“Come,” Phineas said. “I will have that cup of coffee with you, Robert, an’ you will stop looking at me with such pitiful eyes.”
Robert rose to his feet. “What will you intend with the Countess?”
“I know not what she intends with me. For once, I am at a loss.”
Robert shook his head. “For once, I feel bloody sorry for you, Phineas.”
“Pray do not. As you’ve discerned, we have yet to obtain the Lowry seal.”
“Ah, yes,” Robert remembered. “And I suppose you were due your comeuppance.”
Phineas said nothing. He was not ready to concede the Countess just yet.
“WILL YOU NOT TELL BARCLAY?” Harrietta asked when Gertie had divulged her state. They were riding in the Dunnesford carriage to St. Giles.
“What good would come of it?” Gertie replied. “Alexander must not know that the child is not his.”
“How will he not know? You and he have not...”
Gertie steeled herself. “That can be arranged.”
Harrietta furrowed her brow in thought. “One could seek a physician to terminate the–”
“No! I have longed for a child for too long. I could not. But I will not have my child born a bastard. God help me, this child will not suffer from my mistake.”
And she meant it. The thought of her unborn child and its future gave her the strength to carry on. After all those attempts to produce an heir, after all the different remedies Belinda had insisted on trying, she had begotten herself with child through an affair. She could have laughed in her relief—she was not barren, after all—but for her misery.
“And you think Alexander can be...seduced?” Harrietta ventured.
The prospect made Gertie cringe. “It takes but one time...”
“Oh, Gertie, there must be another way!”
“I have mulled it day and night. I have prayed for a solution to present itself.”
“You could petition for a divorce. Vale will see it through Parliament. Pitt owes him a favor.”
“That would happen only after a crim con suit. And what of the baby? What future will it have if it is born a bastard?”
Harrietta looked down at her hands.
“Come,” Gertie said. “I have made you sad, and I do not wish to visit my troubles upon you. We have a number of precious girls who will be delighted to see you.”
“How deucedly iniquitous this all is!” Harrietta lamented.
Gertie did not disagree, and alas, the greatest injury would fall upon an innocent babe. At times, she had imagined leaving Alexander and living an illicit life with Phineas, but always her thoughts returned to the unborn child.
“How we have missed you girls!” Gertie exclaimed as she stood with Harrietta in the Orphan Asylum.
“And we return bearing gifts!” the Marchioness declared as she lifted a valise. The girls clamored around Harrietta, then gasped as little white gloves trimmed with lace emerged.
Gertie smiled as their eyes widened into saucers. She felt a tap upon her shoulder and turned to find Mr. Winters at her elbow.
“Your ladyship, there is a matter that must needs be addressed to you,” he informed her. “If you would come with me into my study...”
She followed him readily, wondering what he could be alluding to.
“How is Peggy?” she asked, fearing he meant to reveal some bad news about the babe.
“Good, good,” he replied. “You will find she has put on more flesh since last you saw her.”
“How wonderful!” she sighed, but she noted Mr. Winters appeared uncomfortable still.
He opened the door of his study to allow her entry. “You have a guest, Lady Lowry.”
She saw him only after she had stepped into the room. Even in the dimness, one could not mistake the form of Phineas Barclay. She turned back to Mr. Winters, but the man had closed the door behind him, leaving her alone with Barclay. Her heart throbbed painfully as if her chest were too small a cavity for it.
“I had to ask Mr. Winters when he expected you for you would not return my letters,” he explained.
The traitor, she thought to herself as she glared at the door.
“I have been visiting my friend at Dunnesford,” she reminded him.
“You returned over a fortnight ago.”
His grimness surprised her. His letters, though curt in their request for her audience, had surprised her as well. She had convinced herself that he would want nothing to do with her upon their return to London. Perhaps he had wished to speak of her regarding the copper mining, though the papers had all been signed and the digging had begun.
“I have been busy,” she answered. “And rather fatigued.”
His expression eased and he took a step towards her. “Are you well, Gertie?”
The concern in his voice made the breath catch in her throat. She turned away from him. She was not well. She was terrible. Ever since she had discovered her pregnancy, she had been plagued by sleepless nights. She glanced into Barclay’s sea
rching eyes. The tenderness reflected in those radiant eyes was an arrow through her heart. Suddenly she wanted to tell him everything, to feel his comforting arms about her. But that would not do. It was best to believe the worst where Lord Barclay was concerned.
“I am well enough,” she replied, her mouth dry. She walked towards the bookcase on the other side of the room from him and pretended to review the book spines. “Did you wish to speak to me of the mine? I understand it is going well?”
“I wished to know how you fared,” he said.
Her stomach twisted, but she forced a nonchalant shrug as she turned to him. “Now you know.”
His gaze narrowed at her. “I see. I was mistaken about our time at the inn, then.”
She raised her brows. “Your pardon? What is there to mistake?”
A muscle rippled along his jaw. He stepped towards her.
“Though I did fear that you would repent our time,” he continued.
“Nay, I do not repent it,” she said with forced gaiety, “but what more needs to be addressed? We amused ourselves, you and I, but one could hardly expect the affair to continue?”
He was still advancing towards her, so she turned to leave, but his arm blocked her path, trapping her between the bookcase and his body.
“Amused ourselves?” he echoed. “Is that how you see our time together?”
Her heart thumped furiously. “La, sir, how else would one see it? You of all people should understand.”
“It meant more to me than mere amusement.”
Gertie shut her eyes. If she looked into his gaze, her armor would crack and she would find herself a crumpled heap at his feet.
His statement hurt more than anything. It was the last thing she wanted to hear him say. She would have done better had he confessed that he had taken her to bed in error.
“Gertie...”
She felt her legs tremble beneath her at the caress of her name.
He leaned in towards her. “I counted the days until we would meet.”
Her eyes flew open. “I am a married woman.”
“That did not stop you at the inn.”
“Things have changed.”
He straightened, and she took that opportunity to escape from him. She leaned over the writing desk for support.
“You have had a change of heart,” he noted.
She nodded. He grasped both her arms and turned her to him.
“I don’t believe it,” he said.
“You may—you may disbelieve all you wish. It does not change my situation.”
His nearness consumed the breathable air about her. She had to put some distance between them.
“I can change it. What do you wish of me? I will grant it.”
She shook her head. “You cannot. Nor do I wish you to.”
“Gertie!”
For the first time she heard the desperation.
“I think it best,” she said with a trembling voice, “that you not seek my audience anymore.”
“Why? I would be the Cicisbeo to you and demand naught from you.”
“But I do not wish it.”
His grasp tightened about her arms. Her head was beginning to spin.
“Gertie, if you knew the depths of my affection–”
She shook her head violently. “Cease! I wish to hear no more. I wish for you not to trouble me! I wish not to see you!”
With a cry, she wrenched herself free. She yanked open the door and fled out of the room. Despite the tears clouding her eyes, she made her way out into the yard behind the asylum. Beneath an elm tree, she sobbed as her heart broke in twain.
Chapter Sixteen
“PHINEAS? PHINEAS!”
Phineas looked over his tea at Georgina, who had invited herself over in hopes of coaxing him to attend her on her visit to the milliner.
“Phineas, you are not yourself,” his sister said, biting into a crumpet. “Robert had said as much but I could hardly believe it. What can possibly ruffle our dear brother?”
He made no response. His mind still dwelled in the orphan asylum and his last exchange with Gertie. She had stunned him. He who had never been for a loss of words had been rendered speechless. He had expected some resistance from her, but her vehemence had disconcerted him. Still, he was not ready to submit to her professed wish. There had to be a way to win her over, but he was at a loss over how.
“I require your services,” Georgina continued, “for I insist on being properly dressed if I am to give testimony at the crim con. Rather, I wish to shine beautifully.”
Phineas put down his tea. Perhaps there was a way to Gertie through Lady Athena...
Gibbons entered the room. “Lord Barclay, a lady is here to see you.”
Phineas leaped to his feet. The Countess! At last! She had realized her affection for him. But the woman waiting for him in the hall was not Gertie. Despite the veil covering her face, he could tell from her form it was not whom he desired. Her robe l’anglaise fitted her petite frame too smartly.
“May we speak in private, Lord Barclay?” the woman asked.
“I have never denied a woman a request for privacy,” Barclay returned, though he sensed a foreboding tenor to the prospect. He showed her into his study. “May I offer you–”
She shook her head. “I will not be long.”
Standing by his writing table, he waited for her to begin. She lifted her veil to reveal young, soft features, a pleasing but not extraordinary countenance with high cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and small lips. He did not recognize her physiognomy, but she revealed herself soon enough.
“Gertie must not know that I came to see you.”
He bowed. “You must be the Marchioness of Dunnesford.”
She appraised him from head to foot and seemed somewhat impressed.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Gertie knows not that I am here, but she told me everything. About you. And her.”
“Indeed,” he said, unimpressed. He knew the affection Gertie bore the Marchioness, but if the Lady Aubrey were such a good friend, why was she here?
His tone must have surprised her for she elaborated, “Gertie is my dearest friend. I will not see her harmed.”
“Ah, the lioness has come to threaten the wolf to keep his distance. I am glad that Gertie—Lady Lowry—has at least one protector.”
“Yes, but...”
“You need not have wasted your time, my lady.”
He made a movement to show her out the door.
“It pains me to see her in such despair,” she insisted. “And if you care for her as much as I, you will not wish to cause her more grief.”
He looked at her sharply. “Madam, I would disavow my soul to ease her suffering. But you will be relieved to know that she has already sworn off further association with me.”
The Marchioness winced. “I know. She told me of her dialogue with you at the orphan asylum. But I think—I suspect you are not the sort of man to give up easily. And you must understand that the more you pursue her, the more she is pained.”
“I have no intention of making a public spectacle if that is what you fear. If she has entrusted you with her confidence, then there is but the three of us who have any knowledge of what occurred.”
“That is not what I meant. You do not understand...”
He raised his brows, feeling his patience wearing thin as the last memory of Gertie brought back the pain of her words.
“Lady Lowry would have me believe that my presence is loathsome to her,” he said. “You will not convince me where she has failed. Lady Lowry—Gertie has a perturbing affinity for the martyr. I intend to persuade her from it.”
“You must not!”
His irritation rose. Though he knew the Marchioness to act out of her love for Gertie, he did not appreciate her meddling. “I think the one who fails to understand is you.”
She had a tortured look on her face. “Please cease your efforts where Gertie is c
oncerned.”
“Madam, I think there is no more that needs be discussed.”
He headed for the door with every intention of having Gibbons escort her out. He could have provided her a set-down for her interference, but only the knowledge of her friendship with Gertie stayed him from making any biting remarks.
“She is with child.”
His hand felt heavy upon the handle of the door as the words sunk in.
“Your child,” Lady Aubrey added.
With slow deliberation, he turned to face her. She looked ready to cry.
“Are you certain?” he asked, his voice near a whisper.
“Certain she is with child or certain it is yours?”
Needing time to think, he walked away from the door towards the window.
“She is certain,” she said. “Of both.”
“Does Alexander know?”
“He knows nothing. And he will not have reason to believe the child not to be his.”
The realization began to sink in. No wonder Gertie had rebuffed him with such passion.
“So you see that it is fruitless to seek her out,” Lady Aubrey stated.
He put a hand to the back of his neck. The world had shifted beneath his feet. All the thoughts and hopes he had harbored were no longer germane. The Cruelty of Fate.
“She will not endanger the future of her child.”
“I know,” he acknowledged. He knew what this child meant to Gertie. He spoke, but his voice reached his ears as if emanating from someone else. “Nor would I ask her to.”
The Marchioness released an audible sigh. She walked over and put a hand upon his arm.
“You are a good man. I suspected as much, for Gertie would not have fallen in love with a man who was not.”
He nearly choked and could not help a grimace as he looked down at the Marchioness. “But not enough to wish to be with me.”
“You must not think thusly. I wish with all my heart that she could have both you and the child. She deserves so much more happiness than she has had.”
He took a deep breath, but it only made his chest ache.
“I can see that you love her.”
He winced and said with some bitterness. “That does not matter now.”
“It always matters.”
The Countess and the Rake Page 16
