That Scandalous Evening

by Christina Dodd

  Fitz had never seen the chap before, nor did he understand why he came here, to this celebration, but his heart went out to both de Sainte-Amand, struggling to support him, and to the fellow who looked so anxiously toward the newlyweds. “May I help you? Could I fetch you a chair?” Fitz asked.

  The stranger didn’t even look at him, as if his lids were too heavy to lift.

  “We can manage,” de Sainte-Amand said. “He should not be out. He came only to honor Miss Higgenbothem. Or, shall I say, Lady Blackburn.”

  The stranger murmured something in French too low and rapid for Fitz to follow, and de Sainte-Amand led him past Miss Morant as if she weren’t there—something Fitz had never seen any man do. Clearly the stranger was very ill.

  Miss Morant shrugged her shoulders at Fitz’s questioning glance, and only de Sainte-Amand returned Lady Goodridge’s greeting. By now the Frenchmen had everyone’s attention as they hobbled past Lord and Lady Tarlin and stopped directly in front of the new Lady Blackburn.

  Her countenance was a mixture of stark horror and amazed gladness. “Monsieur Bonvivant, I never expected…I’m honored.”

  “I had to come…to congratulate you on the occasion…of your marriage.” His English was accented, his delivery interrupted by painful breaths.

  “Thank you.” Lady Blackburn stepped forward. De Sainte-Amand released him, and she wrapped the stranger in her arms. “Merci beaucoup.”

  His cane dangled from his hand as he returned her hug, touching his cheek to hers, first one, then the other.

  Blackburn didn’t like that, and Fitz could almost understand why. Jane had been coolly stoic during the hours in the receiving line, the picture of a proper English marchioness, projecting emotion to no one…not even to her bridegroom. Now this foreigner elicted an uninhibited display of sympathy, kindness, pleasure, reverence, even…love.

  “Dear wife.” Blackburn stepped forward and loomed over them. “Introduce me to our guest.”

  Jane tucked her arm into the stranger’s, and together they faced Ransom. “This is Monsieur Bonvivant.” She said it so proudly, so defiantly, Fitz had the impression they were all supposed to know who this Bonvivant was.

  Fitz, at least, had never heard of him.

  “He is one of the foremost art teachers in Europe,” she said. “He is…my art teacher.”

  “Ah.” Blackburn looked to Lady Tarlin, who shook her head in bewilderment. “What an honor to meet you, sir. You have…helped my wife with her…sketching?”

  Bonvivant swelled like a toad in mating season. “It is not sketching!” He waved his cane, and de Sainte-Amand grabbed for him as he swayed. “Sketching is for ladies. What Mademoiselle Higgenbothem does—it is painting. It is life. Your wife, she has a wonderful talent, especially with the clay, and you will surely foster it.”

  Jane patted his hand. “Don’t disturb yourself, monsieur. I couldn’t bear it if you made yourself ill over this.”

  “Over you.” He smiled on her, a painful smirk that exposed yellow teeth bared almost to the bone by receding gums. “You have the talent. You are worth everything.”

  Fitz couldn’t remember a time when he had seen Blackburn so nonplussed. “She had a studio at Lady Tarlin’s.”

  “But will she have a studio at your home?” Bonvivant fixed his sunken gaze on Ransom. “You have married her, and you have a responsibility to future generations to allow her artistic freedom.”

  “Future generations.” Blackburn fingered his cravat. “Yes. I must think of the future generations.”

  Not the same future generations Bonvivant was thinking about, Fitz suspected. No, Blackburn was thinking about the future generations of Quincys, and the pleasure of begetting them.

  But Bonvivant seemed satisfied. “Good.” He sighed heavily, and the brief flare of personality and fire faded. “Then I have done my duty. Come, de Sainte-Amand, I am ready to go home.”

  Silence fell as they watched the two odd companions walk away, de Sainte-Amand staggering under Bonvivant’s rapidly collapsing weight. Lady Goodridge summoned a footman, who hurried to help, and everyone tried not to look at Jane, who wiped a tear off her cheek with one gloved finger.

  Miss Morant broke the silence. “Aunt Jane, is that where you were always disappearing to? To go to your art lessons?”

  “Not always, dear.” Jane’s voice sounded husky. “I only had a few lessons before…all the other events interrupted.”

  Blackburn placed his fingers on his forehead. “At de Sainte-Amand’s home?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Fitz thought Blackburn would say more, but he laughed, a staccato burst of swiftly contained amusement, and turned to the others. “Any other guests are too late for a receiving line,” he said. “Jane and I will greet them, of course, but the rest of you should go and enjoy yourselves.”

  “Thank goodness,” Adorna said. “My curtsy knee has almost given out.”

  “One does not discuss one’s knees in a mixed group, Miss Morant.” Lady Goodridge admonished her almost absently. “It is unseemly.”

  Fitz snorted expressively.

  Lady Goodridge ignored him with all the majesty of an Amazon queen.

  He ignored her right back. He was Gerald Fitzgerald, last of the Irish Fitzgeralds and as important a sort as any man jack here—in his own opinion, at least. Some might not agree, but she didn’t matter. Fitz looked sideways at her. She didn’t matter at all.

  If she wouldn’t cooperate with his plans to support himself through his attractiveness and virility, there was always that offer from the French to consider.

  And he would do so. See if he didn’t.

  “If you wish, Miss Morant,” Lady Goodridge said with awful decorum, “and if you have your aunt’s consent, you may go and find your friends, provided you follow all rules of propriety without exception.”

  “Will you go with her, Violet, and supervise?” Jane asked with understandable caution.

  “Yes, dear.” Lady Tarlin touched cheeks with Jane. “Although I keep telling you, Adorna never gave us a moment’s trouble when she stayed with us.”

  “Except for that time she disappeared with that old Viscount of Ruskin—oof.” Lord Tarlin held his mistreated ribs while his lady smiled fixedly and rubbed her elbow. “Never a moment’s trouble,” he said hastily. “But we’ll both go with her just to be sure.”

  Adorna bobbed another curtsy, as graceful as her first of the evening, and the little party decamped as rapidly as possible. Fitz thought that the former Miss Higgenbothem watched after them wistfully, and Blackburn seemed unusually intent on Miss Morant. But as if his thoughts were too fantastic, he shook his head and returned his concentration to the group before him.

  Moving to face Blackburn, Fitz offered his hand. “Marriage has changed you.”

  Blackburn took it, and the men shook heartily. “For the better, I hope.”

  “You could only change for the better,” Fitz quipped, and squeezed hard.

  Blackburn pulled back his hand, flexed it with a wince of pain. “You win, both in strength and in wit.”

  “No.” Fitz bowed to the new Lady Blackburn as she stood beside her husband. Taking Jane’s fingers, he brushed a kiss across them and in his deepest voice roughened by his best brogue, he said, “You’ve won all that’s important, for you have taken to wife the loveliest woman in the land.”

  Jane, Fitz thought, didn’t seem taken in by his balderdash.

  In fact, she looked as if she wished to roll her eyes, although she replied politely. “Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald. That is a charming compliment.”

  “I’m known for them,” Fitz said. “But for you, I can do better. How about if I say—only Blackburn deserves you, for although it took a decade he was the only one smart enough to see the wit and talent which you embrace in your very person.”

  Obviously she didn’t like that compliment, either. In fact, Fitz thought for a moment she was going to spout a very frank expletive—or cry. But she gathere
d her composure and turned to her new sister-in-law. To Lady Goodridge, with her upright morals and her snobbish opinion of herself and her fabulous fortune languishing in need of spending.

  “I can see why you like Mr. Fitzgerald,” Jane said. “He feeds a woman’s conceit very skillfully.”

  “Yes. Any woman’s conceit,” Lady Goodridge said acidly. “If you would excuse me, I have my duties as hostess.”

  She stalked away, and against his will, Fitz found himself watching and admiring. She was a magnificent figure of a woman, even if she was older and less nubile than…say…Adorna. Or Jane. Still, Lady Goodridge had something about her…“An obnoxious conceit,” Fitz said, more to himself than to Blackburn. “Quincys have an insufferably superior opinion of themselves.”

  Blackburn answered, echoing his sister all unknowing. “Superiority is not an opinion. It is a fact.”

  Delighted in this consistent manifestation of arrogance in his friend, Fitz asked Jane, “How do you bear him?”

  “He is very easy to bear.” The words were correct, but Jane sounded extraordinarily composed for a woman in the throes of love.

  Still, Fitz knew how long she’d cherished a tendre for Blackburn. Surely there couldn’t be trouble among the roses already—although Ransom’s gloved hand clenched.

  Then Fitz thought he saw the reason for that. “Oh, blast. Here are our latecomers. Athowe and his Frederica.”

  Blackburn glanced toward the top of the stairs where the earl and his lady stood, waiting to be announced. “Such a pleasure,” he drawled in deadly sarcasm.

  He sounded just like the Blackburn Fitz had always known, and Fitz was glad. In his opinion, Blackburn had been a little more wounded by the war than he admitted. Instead, marriage had returned him to his former self.

  “Shall I leave you to greet your friends in peace?” Fitz savored the chance to tease.

  Blackburn clamped a hand on his wrist. “At your own risk.”

  “Lord and Lady Athowe.” Jane was the picture of the social lioness as she greeted the pair. “How good of you to come.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it!” Athowe said heartily, taking Jane’s hand and kissing it fervently. “Talk of the town. Incredible coup, Miss Higgenbothem.”

  “Lady Blackburn.” Ransom took her hand back and tucked it into his own. “She is Lady Blackburn now.”

  “He’s hardly likely to want to admit that.” Frederica aptly wore sour-apple green. “He still worships at her shrine.”

  An awkward silence struck, and Fitz interposed hastily, “As do we all.”

  “But it’s so touching!” Frederica laid her hand on Jane’s arm. “All these years I’ve heard, ‘If only you were like Miss Higgenbothem, Frederica, we wouldn’t be in financial straits.’ And ‘Miss Higgenbothem wouldn’t have gambled away all her allowance, Frederica.’ ”

  “Frederica,” Athowe said so lamely, Fitz wanted to smash his fist into his face. “That’s enough.”

  “You wouldn’t have liked being wed to him, you know, Jane.” Frederica cast him a venomous glance. “He’s a pinch-purse.”

  “This is a ludicrous conversation,” Blackburn snapped.

  “Athowe was courting her all those years ago,” Frederica said. “Don’t you recall, Blackburn?”

  At the back of Fitz’s mind, a memory stirred. B’God, Athowe had been dancing attendance on Miss Higgenbothem; he’d created quite a stir by abandoning Frederica for her. Then, after the scandal, Frederica had soothed his wounded feelings with generous applications of split-tail, and they’d married. At least, that was the story as Fitz remembered it.

  And from Blackburn’s expression, he remembered, too.

  Yet with remarkable composure, Jane said, “My being married to Lord Athowe was never a question.”

  Fitz’s admiration for the woman deepened.

  “That’s not what Athowe says,” Frederica taunted. “Is it, Athowe? He always reminisces about those moments in the secluded alcove. Why don’t you tell us about them, Jane? I’ve only heard Athowe’s version, repeated over and over again.”

  Jane glanced from Frederica to Athowe, perplexed but not dismayed. “I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

  And she didn’t. Fitz would have wagered his deceitful soul on it. Her countenance exhibited no pucker of guilt, her color didn’t change, and she stood quietly, waiting for the next round to be fired.

  Blackburn still held her hand, and Fitz saw the flex of his fingers as he gripped her tighter. “That’s that, then. We’ll hear no more about this.”

  Frederica seemed taken aback, and Athowe positively apoplectic. Then a slow, catlike smile spread across Frederica’s face. “You really don’t remember, do you?” she asked Jane. She turned to Athowe. “She doesn’t remember. Your most holy moment, the apex of your wretched life, and the lady doesn’t remember!” Throwing back her head, she laughed long and shrill. “This is too good.”

  Red-faced and humiliated, Athowe never once looked at Jane as he mumbled an apology. Grabbing Frederica’s arm, he yanked her away. The laughter trailed back toward them, still shrill and with an edge of recklessness that made Fitz want to swear off women for at least…well, for a while.

  Narrowed-eyed, Blackburn looked after them. “I wonder why Susan invited them.”

  “I wonder if Susan invited them,” Fitz responded.

  Blackburn considered Fitz. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Without hesitation, he turned to his wife. Lifting their linked hands, he kissed the back of hers. “May I offer you refreshments?”

  If a moment of suspicion had crossed his mind, he gave no indication of it. Fitz hid a grin. Trust Blackburn to treat Frederica’s accusations with the disdain they deserved.

  “I am thirsty,” Jane answered. “And at the risk of offending Lady Goodridge in absentia, my curtsy knee also hurts.”

  Fitz noted that Jane didn’t even excuse herself or offer an explanation for her behavior eleven years ago. And remembering the former Miss Higgenbothem’s attachment to Ransom, he suspected she had always had the good sense to ignore Athowe’s attentions.

  As he was being ignored.

  The comparison hurt, as did the knowledge he would soon be forced to make a decision.

  De Sainte-Amand was pressing for an answer, his mother’s health was worsening yet again, and Fitz had no options. None at all.

  “If Fitz would procure you a chair,” Blackburn said, “I would procure you a drink, and something to eat.”

  “Gladly,” Fitz agreed.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said.

  Blackburn again kissed her hand, this time with a little more fervor. “I’ll tempt you.”

  Fitz waited until Blackburn had walked away before he located a chair, then offered his arm. “I must tell you, Lady Blackburn, that I stood in line here for two hours, and waited the better part of twenty years, for this moment.”

  “What moment is that, Mr. Fitzgerald?” She let him lead her to her seat, than sank down with a weary sigh.

  “To see my best friend married, and have the cynical bastard—beg pardon, my lady—stand guard before his new wife like a man convinced someone would steal her away. He’s fallen, and fallen hard.” Fitz rubbed his palms together.

  She appeared politely incredulous. “Has he?”

  “Everyone can see that. Look at them watching him and you. Look at them buzzing about his infatuation.”

  She smiled without warmth. “Look at them wondering how long it will last before he banishes me to the country.”

  Her reply halted his celebration and shook his delight. She sounded as if she wondered the same thing.

  But she was in love. Of course, she had to be.

  “Marriage is not so bad, heh? Not even to that old man.”

  “Not at all.” Jane smiled stiffly. “In one fell swoop, marriage has elevated me twice as far as scandal had dropped me, and solved my worries about the future.”

  He looked at her, beautifully dressed, attractively coifed, sitting so u
pright and composed in her chair. He wouldn’t have thought it of her, but she must be suffering bridal nerves. Pulling up a chair, he sat close beside her and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together. “I know Blackburn well, and while he is many things, not all of them admirable, I assure you he is steadfast. He has taken his vows, and he will cleave to them.”

  “Whether he wishes to or not. How flattering.”

  Nerves? This was more of a full-blown trauma! “He wouldn’t have wed you if he didn’t want to. At the risk of being impertinent, I would remind you he didn’t before.”

  Her color rose, but she answered steadily, “It hadn’t gone as far before.”

  “I don’t know much about what happened”—except what every one of the witnesses had said—“but it wouldn’t have gone as far this time if he hadn’t ultimately been willing to wed.”

  She didn’t answer, but began a slow, systematic twisting of her handkerchief.

  “Look, what other reason can you give for his pursuit of you?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s not telling all the truth.”

  That jolted Fitz a little. He’d suspected the same thing. But what had Blackburn to hide? “Who ever tells all the truth?” he asked, adroitly turning the question. “Have you told him every secret you hold?”

  “I don’t have any…oh.” She remembered something, for she stopped in midsentence. “No, I suppose I haven’t.”

  “There, you see.” Fitz cranked his head around to the front of her until she was forced to look at him. “Blackburn is chained fast, and you have done it.”

  “He is not a dog to be kept on a leash.”

  “No.” Fitz chuckled with relish. “He’s a stallion and you—” Abruptly he realized the inappropriateness of repeating Blackburn’s analogy. “My lady, you won’t be sorry you wed him.”

  She thought about his assurances, and her troubled expression lightened. “Call me Jane.”