“Rusty or not,” Will said, then gulped a few more lungfuls of air, “I will still bag more than you.”
The shoot captain gave a soft call and everyone came to a stop. The dogs circled their walkers eagerly, waiting to be unclipped so they could dive into the hedgerows and trees with abandon.
The tree line and the formal hedgerow in front of it loomed in the fog as charcoal silhouettes, twenty yards away.
The dogs and the beaters raced forward and Will lifted the gun and closed it with a heavy snap. The other shooters were doing the same.
Barstow laughed again. “Ready, Rothmere?”
“I hope you’re feeling strong today, Bedford,” Will shot back. “You will need all your strength to carry me.”
“I advise you to save your breath,” Barstow said, lifting his shotgun and sighting along it. “You will need all of it.”
For a long moment, the shooters held still, waiting for the first squawks of alarm that would give them the location of the pheasants. The flutter of wings would follow, then the game birds would burst from the trees, winging hard to gain height and escape the dogs and beaters.
Will kept his head down, listening hard. His lack of breath, the ache in his calves and thighs, the cold…all the petty concerns fell away. His heart slowed. Calm descended. This was something he was good at. Why had he avoided it for so long?
His father’s conversation before Christmas was the reason he was here now. As much as Will had tried to suppress the uneasy ideas the conversation stirred, they’d continued to break into his thoughts since then.
He had arranged this shoot because of it. The alacrity and enthusiasm of the responses to his invitations had stirred his guilt. Most of the men he invited, like Bedford, he considered to be good friends yet he had seen few of them over the last few years. He’d glimpsed them here and there at formal occasions, if they attended the Season at all.
Many of these men he had not seen because they were married and stayed upon their estates, only traveling to London for essential House sessions, then returning to their wives and children with undisguised eagerness.
That was another uncomfortable thought Will thrust aside while arranging the shoot and sorting the invitation responses.
The men he drank with at the club were a different type, he realized. Many of them were commoners. Good men. Smart men. However, they stayed in London year-round, tending to their businesses and affairs.
Bedford, at least, was still a bachelor at large. Will drew comfort from that. At least one other lord with the same obligations as he was still enjoying life to the hilt.
The dogs brayed, drawing Will’s attention. Then, muffled by the fog, came the heavy flutter of wings and ruffled feathers.
He lifted his chin, raised his gun and focused.
* * * * *
As they tramped back to the house, afterward, Bedford clapped Will on the shoulder. “Did I not call it? Rusty, as I said.”
Will nodded. Of the fifty-two birds taken, Will contributed a paltry three. Bedford bagged twelve. It wasn’t a sliver of a victory, as their victories over each other usually were. It was a complete rout and humiliating, at that.
In his gut, something stirred. By God, he would not let this sorry state of his go unchecked. “Next year, I will make you take this day back,” Will told Bedford.
Bedford laughed. “Very well, then. Next year, we will see.”
The mist was clearing as the sun rose, although it was a weak, pale disk in the sky. The ground sloped down to the flat valley where the big, stately gray house sat in front of stables and outbuildings and extensive gardens. When Raymond rebuilt the manor, he had worked to retain as much of the old gardens as possible and the great oak trees beyond them. As a consequence, the grand manor with its pleasing symmetry—so unlike Farleigh Manor—looked as though it had stood there for generations.
“Breakfast always seems heartier after a shoot, don’t you find?” Bedford said, looking down at the house. Perhaps he was anticipating the mulled wine and oatcakes and stewed fruit that would be on offer. “Is Marblethorpe’s cook up to scratch?”
Will remembered, then. His heart sank. “Damn it all…” he muttered.
Bedford cocked his head and raised a black brow.
Will sighed and ruffled his hair, irritated. “I quite forgot, Bedford…” He hesitated. “Jack is home. He lives here, now, with…with my sister, his wife.”
Bedford came to a halt, looking down at the house. “Gwendolyn, yes? The quiet beauty.” He considered the matter, his jaw working. “That was two years ago. Perhaps it is time to let bygones pass.” His voice was quiet.
Will considered the man, surprised. His little sister, Mary, had died less than a year ago. Most of the gossips attributed her death to a broken heart and not the infection that had taken her. Jack had been nearly engaged to the girl for years before the newspapers revealed he was secretly involved with Jenny all that time.
“If you’re sure…” Will said. “I’d be happy to take you to the Lamb and Clover in Brighton, instead. Everyone will understand.”
Bedford shook his head. “If Guestwick can look me in the eye, then I can muster the grace to shake his hand.”
“You’re a good man, John.”
Bedford moved down the gentle slope, with a grin and a shake of his head. “I still don’t understand how your great family survived that scandal, Rothmere. By rights, your reputations should all hang in tatters.”
Relieved, Will hurried to catch up with him. “Love wins out, I suppose. And it was that—a true love match.”
Bedford rolled his eyes. “Love?” he breathed, disgust rich in his voice. “You sound like a man engaged, all doe-eyed and breathless about the wonders of marriage. I didn’t think you, of all men, would succumb to that particular disease.”
In the past, Will might have snorted his own derision and waved the awkward moment off, in full agreement that men who gave in and got themselves married were betraying the brotherhood of bachelors. He and Bedford had spent many evenings drinking to the loss of yet another bachelor.
Now, though, Will concentrated on his feet and not tripping down the slope, discomfort cramping his belly. He didn’t want to dispute Bedford a moment after the man had shown such character and grace. Only, Bedford’s analogy of marriage being a disease conflicted sharply and distastefully with the swirl of ideas and possibilities his father had planted at Christmas.
* * * * *
There were dozens of men standing about the entry hall. As the hall had a fireplace of its own and colorful rugs and chairs, most of them lingered there to warm themselves and partake of the mulled wine that Collins and his footmen were handing out.
Will and Bedford moved among them, making their way to the drawing room on the other side of the house. Will couldn’t see anyone in the front hall who lived in the manor. It was just his guests for the moment, although with breakfast about to be served, the members of the household would surely appear soon, including Jack.
Will wanted to warn Jack about Bedford’s presence before the two confronted each other. It was only fair that Jack have a chance to brace himself. Jenny, too. The consequences of that horrid summer in London still rose occasionally to catch the two of them by surprise. Sometimes, society members shunned them at public events, despite the ton in general accepting them as a most romantic couple. Jack’s bids for engineering projects had sometimes failed despite being the lowest or fairest, while explanations given to him for taking a higher bid made no sense.
Society as a whole may have forgiven Jack and Jenny, yet some individuals were slower to come around. It was reasonable to expect that Bedford would be one of them, despite his statements outside.
Collins appeared magically by Will’s side as he moved into the drawing room. “My Lord Rothmere, Mr. Stephenson arrived at the house a short while ago. He is asking to speak to you at your earliest convenience.” Collins was a spare man with a high forehead, mousy hair and astonishing gre
en eyes behind spectacles. He was unexpectedly young for a butler, yet Raymond added to the man’s responsibility with each passing year.
That was perhaps understandable, given that four individual families lived in the manor, along with odd cousins and children. Raymond managed several estates, too. Will had learned not to dismiss anything Collins said. The man was intuitive and clever.
“Ray Stephenson is here?” Will said, startled. “My estate manager?” he added.
“Indeed, my Lord. He came down on the night train from Kirkaldy. I put him in Lord Marblethorpe’s office, where he can use the desk for his papers. He carried a great many of them.”
Impatience and irritation touched Will. “I can’t break off here to coddle him over irritable tenants,” he said. “I’m hosting a shooting party, Collins. Tell him to write me a letter and send him back home.”
Collins pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “Perhaps, as the man has traveled a great distance to see you…”
Will clamped down on his impatience. “What do you suggest, Collins?”
“I can have breakfast served to him, at least, my Lord. Then, perhaps, once the guests have settled down, you can meet with him in my Lord’s office to hear the man out. I can arrange a carriage back to the train station for him, in time for the noon train to St. Pancras.”
Will nodded. “Thank you, Collins. That will mollify him, I’m sure.”
Collins gave a graceful nod of his head, then straightened, his gaze moving beyond Will. “Oh dear…” he murmured.
The odd note in the butler’s voice made Will turn on his heel to spot what had alarmed him.
Bridget stood just inside the open front door in a muddy traveling suit and her hair in disarray. She looked about the crowded front hall with an expression that was as close to despair as Will had ever seen on her face.
Chapter Four
Grand social affairs were so rare at Marblethorpe that to find herself in the midst of one was a nasty shock. Bridget pushed at her hair, that was escaping her poorly made bun, aware of how shoddy her appointments were. She had given little thought to them when she left London yesterday morning and cared nothing for the startled looks sent her way. Brooks, her maid, had stayed here at Marblethorpe, for Bridget expected to use one of Taplow’s staff for the few services she required.
All she had cared about was to return to Marblethorpe as quickly as possible and pull her mother to one side and speak to her. Her aching heart would ease, she was sure, once she unburdened herself to Natasha.
Instead, she was confronted with a hall thick with people, most of them strangers and all of them men.
Bridget didn’t have the courage or strength to ease her way through them. She would have to be polite and charming. She would not snub Raymond’s guests. It would be impolite and an insult to Raymond.
Only, she didn’t have the energy for charm and chatter.
Will pushed his way around the circles of men and Bridget’s heart sank even farther. She had forgotten Will was staying at Marblethorpe over Christmas.
Worse, he was heading for her, his gaze on her face.
As soon as he got close enough for her to speak, she said quickly, “I will go around to the portico door, Will. I won’t intrude.”
Will took her arm. “Don’t be silly,” he said, his voice as low as hers. “You look ready to collapse. Come in. Come. The morning room isn’t being used.”
“No, really, Will. I just want to go to my room.” Her mother would eat breakfast with the guests. She would not be able to speak to her just yet. With a houseful of guests, it would be prudent to wash and change and have Brooks see to her hair before appearing once more.
Will shepherded her through the men, his other arm out to hold them away from her and stop them from stepping backward and tripping over them. He pushed against backs and shoulders, making room for her hoops.
Relief touched her. At least she would not have to walk all the way around to the portico on the east side of the house.
At the foot of the stairs, she made herself smile at Will. “Thank you.”
A tiny furrow dug between Will’s brows. “I’ll see you up to your room.”
“No, Will,” she said, alarmed. “You’re in hunting clothes. You’re a part of the group. You should go back to them.”
“It’s my shooting party,” he said. “They won’t miss me while the wine flows. Up you go. Go on.” His hand pushed gently at her back.
She didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, she lifted her hoop and climbed the stairs. Will stayed beside her, taking the stairs two at a time to her every two steps and he used the middle of the staircase while she used the banister.
Bridget hurried along the wide corridor to her room at the back of the house. She wanted to put a closed door between her and the world. She wanted silence.
Will pushed open her door and stepped aside.
Gratefully, she moved into the room. She had never been so glad to see the canopy bed and her old dressing table. The door shut behind her and she turned to look at it, surprised that Will had left without a last word.
He stood with his back to the door, watching her.
Bridget’s heart thudded sickly. “What are you doing?”
“Even a fool like me can tell from your face that something has gone badly awry, Bree. You look…ill.” He dropped his hand from the doorknob. His fingers curled in against his palms as if he wanted to make fists of them. “What happened with the duke? Are you engaged?”
His soft question broke the dam she had built to hold back the hot stew of despair and humiliation building in her for more than a week. She had held it all inside, intent upon reaching her mother and gaining wiser council. The closer she came to Marblethorpe, the greater the internal pressure grew, until she felt like a steam engine with no safety valve and a stoked boiler, the bolts shuddering loose and threatening to fly.
Bridget sank to the floor, her face in her hands, as the black miasmic sludge poured from her in thick waves. She could no more hold it back than fly. “He lied to me, Will! He lied! Oh, I was such a fool. Who am I to think I could catch a duke? At my age? Oh, it was humiliating! He…he…used me!”
She wept, her body shaking, as the sobs tore at her chest and her throat.
Will’s strong arms came around her and she was lifted…not high, but enough to be placed back down upon his lap. He turned her face into his shoulder and held her.
That Will was the one to witness her humiliation made it both worse and far, far better. His silent comfort eased the ache in her chest and let her cry freely. She gripped his lapel and hid her face against the rough wool of his jacket, her shoulders shaking.
She didn’t realize she was speaking, at first. As she had been doing for days, now, she relived over and over again the evening with Taplow in the empty house, reviewing it and revisiting her stupidity. “I don’t believe he ever intended to marry me,” she murmured, her cheek rubbing against Will’s shoulder. “He wanted me to think he would, so he could…so we…Oh, Will, how could I be such an idiot? He let me think that to…be together…that it would help us both settle in our minds that marriage was right, that we would be good together.”
Will didn’t speak, yet his body tensed against her shoulder.
The dam was breached, though. Bridget could not halt the flow of words, not even if the tension he was feeling was disgust. She must get it out. All of it. “That first night and the next, he repeatedly told me he was selfish, that he wanted time with me alone. Then the following morning…” Now she could not speak. That had been the moment when she first realized the truth.
“That would have been Christmas morning,” Will ground out, his voice filled with some emotion she didn’t recognize.
She nodded, closing her eyes. She tightened her grip on his lapel.
“What happened, Bree?” Will asked. “Tell me. Just me. Not another soul in the world need ever hear of it once you’ve told me. It will stay with me forever.�
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Bridget put her hand to her face, the half that wasn’t resting against him. “I woke and the bed was empty. He was gone. The house was empty, Will. There was no one at all. I had to…I dressed myself and walk to the village to find a cab to take me to the station. Then, to London by train. The train was empty, too.”
“Because it was Christmas day,” Will said. His voice was even tighter and harsher, this time.
“I got to the townhouse on Park Lane that afternoon,” Bridget whispered. “No one was home, of course. It’s closed down for the winter. I stayed in the kitchen. I worked out how to light the stove and that let me heat water. There were preserves in the pantry…”
“You’ve been in the townhouse this past week?” Will asked. This time, his tone was mellower.
“I wrote letters to him. Two a day. I still hoped it was a misunderstanding, that some family emergency had pulled him away and we could meet somewhere and go from there. There was no answer, of course.”
As the week wore on without a reply, the horrible truth became clearer. It had taken a full week for her to come to grips with the situation her ignorance and foolish hope had delivered her into.
“When I knew for sure no reply would ever arrive, I knew I must come home,” Bridget whispered. “I didn’t want to. I would rather be in Timbuktu than here, even though I have no idea where that is—”
“Africa, I believe,” Will murmured.
“Africa, Australia, anywhere would be better, only I’m a stupid woman who can barely get herself to Sussex alone.” She sighed. “I suppose you must want to laugh at me, Will, for my sheer idiocy. You’ve likely made such arrangements with ladies many times. I should have understood from the outset what Taplow wanted, only I was so…so thrilled at the idea of a duke as a husband, after all these years of not a single hope…”
Will lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were grave. “There have been arrangements,” he admitted. “Many of them, over the years, although I never once made a promise I didn’t intend to keep. The lady always understood that.”
Scandalous Scions Two Page 44
