by Pendle, Eve
“No one will have read colloquial little newspapers like the Devon Evening Post in London.” He waved away her objection. “We can tell our own version of events.”
Her mother was nodding in agreement. “An excellent notion, my lord.”
“But if everyone knows about it in London...” She trailed off. She and her father had agreed that the false part of the engagement was best kept between themselves, rather than shared with her mother and sister. She wanted to say that when they broke off the engagement, it would be that much more public in London. On the other hand, they might be able to disguise its inauspicious beginnings, which was an advantage.
Her sister’s coming-out ball was scheduled for three weeks’ time. If she went to London now and broke off the engagement in a few weeks, that would taint Connie and her debut. They would have to keep up the whole pretense for weeks more. Possibly until the end of the season. Concern tickled her spine.
“I don’t know.” There were the Lady Hunters to think of too. They were only a few days into their weeklong trip. “I need to stay here. I have more ferns to find before the beginning of the season.”
“If that’s all.” Markshall shrugged. “There are plenty of fields near London.”
“Of course." Her back bristled at his dismissive tone. “Though I have a duty to the Lady Hunters.”
“Miss Green can look after the group,” her father interjected. “We’ve been saying you ought to relinquish a little control.” He turned to his wife. “Why don’t you go ahead with Emily?”
Her parents exchanged a barely concealed glance of consternation about leaving her father to the stress of dealing with Connie. Out of the corner of her eye, Emily saw Connie notice.
“I’ll follow with Connie after a few days,” her father added, “so she can have the dancing lesson booked for her at the end of the week.”
“I’ll write to Mrs. Burnham about leading the group for the remainder of the trip.” Not Miss Green. Emily’s smile felt as brittle as Wardian case glass.
“That’s decided then. We will go to London tomorrow.” Her mother nodded happily. “It will give Emily and me a chance to visit the modiste before Connie takes all her attention.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Yes.” Emily tried to sound as though she were happy at the prospect. How was she going to manage weeks of being engaged to Lord Markshall, when he was going to act as though he were truly her loving betrothed, knowing what she did about him? Moreover, how was she to resist him at his most charming?
Chapter Eight
Markshall woke early to get the first train to London. As he bolted down a boiled egg and toast, Jones brought in a telegram.
“It’s a little delayed,” Jones handed over the paper with a scowl. “I will speak to the London butler about ensuring telegrams are not posted with the usual mail but wired immediately.”
Markshall nodded distractedly. He mustn’t be late for Lady Emily. Coffee in his left hand, he opened the telegram with his right and read.
Lord Markshall.
Mrs. Taylor’s daughter, Annie, is ill.
Yours etc. Sir Thomas.
It was a moment before Markshall felt the burn on his fingers from the tilted cup, forgotten in his fingers. He slammed it down into its saucer; miraculously it didn’t break.
Annie. Damn. His daughter was ill. Someone must be quite worried about her, probably Lydia, in order that Sir Thomas would contact him. She must be very sick, maybe even... His mind refused to consider the possibility.
Jones was still at his elbow, waiting for a response, he realized. “There will be a reply. I’ll be up in a moment.”
Jones understood that as a dismissal and left Oscar alone in the breakfast room.
He stared at the telegram. He’d never met her. Annie, his daughter. It had been more than a year since he’d seen her, playing in the street. To his everlasting shame, he hadn’t even bothered himself with her existence for the first five years of her life and thus hadn’t seen her as a baby.
He anonymously aided her, and because it had to be anonymous, every other child in the village. He sponsored the Children's Society of Elmswell, giving an extravagant rate of interest to the meager savings collected. To prevent any connection being made, Sir Thomas updated him regularly about any child who was taken ill. He received intermittent telegrams about the wellbeing of Elmswell children, especially over winter. But he’d never seen his daughter’s name.
He remembered each time he’d seen Annie intensely, like an oil painting in vibrant colors. Each rosy spot in her cheeks was seemingly redder than life, the wave of her hair more bouncy. She’d inherited Lydia’s unruly blond hair. But her blue eyes were deeper than Lydia’s, he could see that even from a distance. Her dark blue eyes were the same as those that he saw in the mirror when he shaved each day.
If she died, without him ever having met her, how could he live with that?
He couldn’t. It was unthinkable.
He could get on the train now; he was going to do that anyway. He’d be in London by early afternoon, and he could be in Sussex by early evening if he was lucky. Then he’d go to their house. No, he’d stop in London and order a nurse to tend to Annie. Or should he go straight there and direct a doctor, and a local nurse? Someone that Lydia knew and trusted. Someone who wouldn’t report back to him how Annie was doing. Yes, he’d stop in London before he went to his daughter. He and Lydia could discuss... Hmm.
Was arriving on Lydia’s doorstep at such a time acceptable? There might be ghosts of her past that she would welcome. But the man who had ruined her... No. If he gave in to the impulse, it would be selfish. Even if his intentions were good, he couldn’t impose on Lydia at this time. He couldn’t wave a magic wand and make this right. There were some things that were out of even an earl’s control. In this case, he’d put it out of his own control when he’d callously deserted Lydia.
Well, not quite. He couldn’t go there himself, and he couldn’t let Lydia know he was involved. But there were still ways of saving his daughter or at least helping. It would require involving someone who hated him almost as much as Lydia must. Lydia’s sister, Matilda, Lady Lakenham.
He gulped down the cooling remains of his coffee. The train left in just half an hour. He needed to act swiftly, or he would leave his other responsibility standing on the platform and justifiably furious. The second woman he’d ruined.
Even if he’d had time to finish his toast, his stomach suddenly revolted at thought of eating. He took the stairs two at a time. At his study desk, an enormous polished dark oak thing with deep drawers, he drew up a piece of paper and wrote to Lady Lakenham. Then on another page, he wrote a telegram. He would get help, in the form of money, to Lydia and Annie however he needed to.
Sealing it quickly, he handed the explosive missives to Jones. “Get a bankers’ draft for twenty pounds. Send it to Lady Lakenham along with this letter. Telegram her this message immediately. Follow me on the afternoon train.”
Jones nodded. One would never know Oscar had ordered him to do something unthinkable.
* * *
Emily was waiting on the platform, in front of the first-class carriage he’d booked for them. Her shoulders were pulled back, and she looked as though she was just admiring the view of the steam engine, rather than waiting.
“Apologies, my dear, I couldn’t drag myself away from my coffee and tinned peaches, and I quite forgot the time.” Because what could he say? Not the truth. He couldn’t say, even to his fake fiancé, that his illegitimate daughter was ill. He had to employ subterfuge to try and help her mother, with the help of another woman who hated him.
Lady Emily’s look was the sort of calm that descended with a blanket of raincloud. “My mother is on the train. Shall we join her?” She smiled as though the time was of no consequence.
The conductor blew the whistle as Markshall yanked open the carriage door. Emily stepped nimbly inside, and he had to take two swift steps alongside to jump onto the
train, slamming the door behind him. As the train picked up pace out of the station, he was aware of her body, warm, slight, tempting next to his. She hadn’t made her way into the carriage, so she was almost pressed against him in the small space for standing between the seats. She was so close, he could smell her hair.
“Good day. I’m glad you were able to join us, Lord Markshall,” said a woman’s voice. He looked across and saw her Grace the Duchess of Cumbria, Emily’s mother.
Emily moved away from him, rearranging her crinoline and skirts to seat herself opposite her mother, leaving him standing. He hesitated. Ought he to sit next to the Duchess for propriety’s sake? Probably. He didn’t have the best track record with small spaces and Lady Emily. He settled himself next to the Duchess so Lady Emily would be out of harm’s way.
He immediately regretted the impulse. He might not be right next to her, but now he was committed to spending the hours of the journey with her opposite him, as lovely, controlled and fresh as any Pre-Raphaelite painting.
She was beautiful and desirable, his sham fiancée. Any man of no morals, such as he was, would take advantage of his position as her temporarily prospective husband. Only yesterday he’d thought of convincing her that their agreement might be longer lasting.
But today, he couldn’t summon up any enthusiasm for it. She was right. A sham engagement was best. There would be no pleasure for her in a marriage with him. And there would be little for him either. Any satisfaction he might have in his socially able, dryly witty, and utterly beautiful wife would be overwhelmed by the knowledge that she could never love him, and neither ought she to.
They talked on indifferent topics: the weather, their various likings of London. Emily liked Hyde Park, her mother preferred Vauxhall Gardens. They all agreed that Westminster Palace was quite the best thing built in London in the last fifty years, its gothic styling and solid aspect with flourishes naturally appealing. But while her mother defended the Georgian style with its elegant lines, Markshall clenched his jaw harder and harder to prevent contradicting her.
After a while the Duchess settled to rest her eyes, leaning against the leather padded side of the carriage and Oscar was left to make quiet conversation with Emily, until she too gave in the gentle shake of the train, and fell asleep. Then all Oscar could do was stare at her, admiring the sweet lines of her face.
His mind rolled with Lydia, Annie, Lady Lakenham, and the political obligations which had prompted this journey in the first place. The more he looked at Lady Emily’s fine features and smooth hair, the more he knew he couldn’t ruin her life. But maybe he already had.
* * *
“Good shot,” James said, as she finally managed to concentrate enough to pick off a bird, off to the far right of the beaters and the dogs. “Bit out of the way, though. Shall I go and get the pheasant for you?”
“Oh, yes. Please do.” She smiled at him as though everything was all right.
Save me some birds.” He winked at her. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
He whistled for his gun dog and tromped off into the bracken and she watched his back as he departed. Familiar, loved. A part of her since childhood, someone who would always be in her life.
The sun was bright and autumnal, the trees turning red and the peasants plump and ready after a summer of excess. With ease she reloaded her own gun.
She brought the gun up and looked down the barrel into the trees. The cold bit into her chest even as the sun was warm on her back. Her hands moved without her volition. Cocking the safety. Putting her finger over the trigger. It wasn’t her that turned. An invisible hand pushed her around, even as her body was rigid, fighting the intrusion. She was powerless against the force.
A shot rang out. The bullet ripped into him, a sudden flower of red on his brown tweed coat.
Throwing down her gun she was running, tripping over her skirts as she fought through the bracken to get to him.
“James! James! Are you hurt? Tell me you’re all right!” But she was too out of breath with running and the words didn’t come out. He got further and further away from her. Her limbs were mired in a bog or the springy gorse, or something intangible holding her back, however hard she fought. James held up his arm towards her, in a beckoning gesture. He was saying something, but she was too far away, and she couldn’t hear or read on his lips what his words were.
Her limbs struck out to no avail. She must save him. He collapsed backward.
She lunged to drag him back up to her. But she was trapped in a prison that was holding her fast and shaking her. It was dark. Her name being called insistently. She fought. She had to get to James before it was too late.
* * *
“Emily.”
She opened her eyes to see blue. Deep blue, the like of which one didn’t get in autumn. Then the vision moved. Markshall leaned away, and she saw that it was his eyes that were the cerulean sky. It was only when he released her arms that she realized he had been bracketing her. Probably he’d been the shaking, trying to wake her up before she woke her mother.
“Thank–” Her throat was dry, and she had to swallow. “Thank you.”
Markshall sat back down opposite her. “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”
Unbidden, her gaze slid sideways to her mother. She was stirring a little, but still asleep.
Markshall’s head inclined to the side as he followed her look. “I see. Perhaps another time.”
“Perhaps.” She hoped not. This dream, she hadn’t had it in a while, but it was persistent now. Twice in quick succession. Both times when she was with Oscar, like seeing him injured in the hole had triggered off something in her mind. Something that would be better remaining locked away. Something she would ensure was not let out.
“You looked as though you have some further opinion on our discussion of architecture, my lord,” Emily said, to change the direction of the conversation.
“Not at all.” A frown dipped his brows for a moment before he smiled. “I am simply a follower of fashion, and thus of Pugin.”
“He of the treatise on architecture?” She almost sighed with relief. The dream was forgotten already. “I didn’t think you’d be so old fashioned, Lord Markshall.”
“Pugin wrote a whole book critiquing the superficiality of modern buildings when modern was 1820. He said that God knew when you used cheap bricks and that the mass market things for the consumer market were wrong.” He tilted his head. “I have a copy in the library in town, if you’d like to read it.”
“More than fifty years ago he said economical buildings were sinful.” Emily would have huffed with indignation if such an action wasn’t rude. She smiled instead. “But working people need houses, not ideals.” She modulated her tone so there was no rancor in it.
“Maybe. But he believes in things done properly and so do I,” he said gravely. It was only when he grinned and lightened his tone that she saw he’d revealed himself. His default was a light, laughing defense of what he thought. “If a thing is ugly on the inside, it ought to be ugly on the outside,” he continued. “All these grand workhouses are no good. They are as bad a facade on an old building. A place of poverty ought to be poor.”
It was odd, he mixed up his opinions at will, seemingly always being the devil’s advocate.
“I see.” She thought she might be beginning to. “You are in favor of these misshapen buildings that are dictated by their rooms rather than the pretty form of the house’s exterior.”
“That and showing the function and nature of things.” Markshall nodded. “No ornament for its own sake, only to enhance its functionality.”
“What say you then, to buildings that have pretty facades of render, but are cheap bricks underneath?” She was going to trap him into revealing his true opinion.
“They are no better than,” he lowered his voice and said, “a cheap whore with rouge and a hairpiece.”
She wore a hairpiece. And rouge. What lady didn’t these days? No-one who wante
d to look her best. It wasn’t the Regency anymore, when it was only acceptable to be plain-faced. But she smiled at his comment because she’d given him the opportunity to shock her with his crassness and he’d taken the bait. “Or a lord who pretends at virtue.”
He gave a wolfish smile, as though he’d won. “I do not pretend at virtue.”
“No. You do not have any veneer of godliness, though that’s what society demands. I wonder why.”
In the past, he’d done terrible things, but although he had pursued her, he hadn’t seduced her. He’d said that he wanted her, yet he’d been the one to end their kiss when she’d been pursuing a sybaritic dream. He could have forced himself on her when they were stuck together in that hole or tempted her into vice. She didn’t need much leading. But he hadn’t. Instead, he had told her about his worst moment, when she hadn’t shared anything so personal and shaming with him.
He was so much the man of vice, it made her wonder. It was almost that he himself needed reminding. Ruining that girl couldn’t be salvaged or forgiven. But was there repentance and some attempt at reparation?
“Because I am not good.” He smirked and perhaps it was her fancy, but there seemed to be some sadness in his eyes, even as he warned her. “You’d do well to remember that.”
Chapter Nine
Once he delivered Emily and her mother home, Oscar didn’t go to his townhouse. He proceeded directly to White’s. The doorman smiled to Oscar in welcome, accepted his tip with a nod and informed him there was correspondence waiting for him and some of his acquaintances were in the small lounge.
He collected the packet, addressed with Jones’ handwriting and presumably sent over from his townhouse. The note from Jones he shoved in the breast pocket of his jacket. He opened the telegram.
