Candice Hern (25 page)

“Oh, God,” Belinda wailed, “he’s going to be killed. Aunt Ellie, what am I going to do? Am I to be a widow after only one day of marriage? Can’t we do something to stop this?” She broke into a torrent of tears and flung herself into Eleanor’s arms.

“There, there, my love,” Eleanor said. “Simon will not kill him, I promise you.”

But her stomach had tied itself into knots thinking that Geoffrey just might kill Simon.

Edwina came up and put a hand on Eleanor’s arm. “Try not to worry,” she said. “Perhaps they will both fire into the air.”

“But men are such idiots about these things,” Eleanor said. “Will they feel honor has been upheld if they don’t actually take aim at each other?”

“We can only hope,” Edwina said.

Within mere minutes, the arrangements had been made for the duel to take place in a field behind the inn. Belinda would have it that she
must
be there, and though Eleanor did not think she could bear to watch, she and Edwina came along.

While Geoffrey was dealing with a sobbing, clinging Belinda, Simon walked over to Eleanor. His mouth was set in a grim line. There was so much Eleanor wanted to say to him, but her tongue was tied with knots of confusion and fear and anger. She didn’t know what to think about anything anymore. Had it only been a few hours ago that she had lain naked in his arms? And now he might be killed.

“I honored our bargain,” Simon said. “I did everything you asked. And yet you betrayed me, you betrayed my secret. You are unattainable after all. I am sorry. But there is something else I wanted to say to you. Last night—”

“No.” Eleanor thought she knew what he wanted to say and she did not want to hear it. If this foolish man was about to get himself killed, she did not want to know that he loved her despite her betrayal. She could not bear it. “No, I don’t think there is anything more to say.”

“As you wish,” he said, and sketched a bow. He walked away and began to remove his jacket.

Dear God, what had she done?

Belinda had come to join them, sobbing quietly. Eleanor put an arm around her. The seconds checked the guns and handed them to Simon and Geoffrey.

Eleanor inhaled a great shuddery breath, and a hint of sweet fragrance filled her nostrils. She looked up sharply. Standing tall and lush at the
other side of the field was a lilac tree, adorned with the last flourish of its annual bloom.

Lilac.

The two men stood back to back, and at Nicholas’s count, began to pace ten steps. They turned to face each other. Eleanor reached out and clutched Edwina’s hand. She felt rather faint. Nicholas rose his voice and said, “Ready.”

Edwina squeezed her hand. Eleanor squeezed back, hard, and shut her eyes. The heady scent of lilac wrapped itself around her.

“Aim.”

No!
Eleanor let go of Edwina’s hand and took a step toward the field.

“Fi—”

“Hold on just a minute there, guv’ner.” The familiar Cockney of Obidiah Hackett rang out like an organ with all the stops pulled.

Simon and Geoffrey dropped their arms. Eleanor almost swooned with relief. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Edwina rubbing her hand.

The little bandy-legged Runner strutted to the center of the field with the gangly, dour Francis Mumby following close behind. He stood with his hands behind his back, like a politician about to give a speech. The posture served to thrust his bright red waistcoat into full view, and he looked for all the world like a plump little cock of the walk.

“It looks to me,” he said, “that a criminal act is about to take place. ’Fraid I can’t allow such an illicitous thing to happen, guv’ner. Not under Obidiah Hackett’s watch. Now, if you gentlemen will drop yer guns and step back, Mumby and I will pretend we never seen a thing. I don’t recommend any argumentation. You don’t want to get old Mumby here angry. Got a prodigitous temper, he does. Mean as fire when he gets riled. So, set ’em down and move back.”

Simon and Geoffrey did as he asked, and Hackett stepped forward and picked up the guns. He fired one in the air, and the report was so loud and unexpected that Eleanor nearly jumped out of her skin. He then fired the second one, and handed both guns to Nicholas. “Now put these barking irons away safe and sound, like. And don’t let me see ’em again.”

Simon stood in the middle of the field and felt like a hot air balloon with all the air squeezed out of it. He was empty. No heart. No soul. No hope. He’d never felt so drained in all his life.

Hackett was herding everyone toward the inn, but Simon didn’t move. Nicholas came up to him and pulled him by the arm so that he was forced to put one foot in front of the other. “Thank God for that little Runner,” Nicholas said. “I wasn’t looking forward to planting flowers on your grave, my friend. That Barkwith fellow meant business. He would have blown a hole in you for sure.”

“I know. I’d said my last prayers.” He’d been ready to die.

“It was the great Romantic Agony after all, was it not?”

“She betrayed me, Nick. I had trusted her, and she betrayed me.”

“I’m sorry, old man. Are you going to be all right?”

“My head aches,” Simon said, “but that is only because my brain is still spinning. I feel like a man in a dream—no, a nightmare—who doesn’t know what strange twist was coming next. I have certainly never spent such a day in all my life, full of ups and downs enough to make a man dizzy. And it is still morning.”

Simon caught up with the others and pulled Barkwith aside. The young man was still furious. “You did not wish to hear it before,” Simon said, “but I hope you will now accept my apology. I am sorry I kidnapped Belinda. Mrs. Barkwith, that is.”

“It was a damned fool thing to do,” Barkwith said. “You scared the life out of her.”

Simon thought not, but would cut his tongue out before saying so to her hot-blooded husband. “Yes, well, I thought I was doing what her aunt wished. Made a prime mess of it, though. We didn’t know you were married, you know.”

“Well, what the devil did you think we went to Scotland for? The fishing?”

“As I say, we were wrong, and I made a terrible mistake. I hope you will accept my apology.”

Barkwith nodded, grumbled an acceptance, and moved away to take his bride’s arm.

One hurdle cleared. Now, what to do about Eleanor.

He could hardly believe the woman who had flung such hateful words at him earlier, who’d betrayed his secret, was the same woman who’d melted in his arms the night before.

And she had been so cold when he had wanted to speak to her before the duel. She had not expressed any regrets for her betrayal, and hadn’t wanted him to say anything at all. He had been about to tell her he loved her. Despite everything, he was going to his death loving her. He had wanted her to know it, but she wouldn’t let him say it. How had he been so wrong about her? Had she even cared that he might die?

Apparently not.

He had to speak to her. He had to know if the night before had been just another fantasy and not a momentous reality. As the group of them reached the coffee room, he took her arm and pulled her gently aside.

“Eleanor, could we speak privately for a moment?”

She nodded, but kept a frown on her face as he led her out of the inn yard and across the street where there was a small park with trees and gravel paths. He led her to a stone bench and sat down beside her. His stomach churned with apprehension.

“I’m very sorry, Simon. I had no wish for you to become embroiled in a duel. You might have been k-killed.”

“Would you have been sorry?”

“How can you ask such a thing?”

“You betrayed my trust. You might as well have put a bullet through me.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “Oh, Simon, must you always be the great romantic? Knights on white horses and duels of honor, for God’s sake.”

“You’re still angry with me.”

Her brow was furrowed in a thunderous scowl, and Simon found himself a little shaken by the cold green gaze. “Yes, I am, but I’m more angry with myself. I should have trusted my instincts.”

“And what did those instincts tell you?”

“That you were a romantic fool who believed in fairy tales and had no notion of the ordinary, everyday world in which the rest of us struggle to live peacefully.”

Her anger fueled Simon’s own wrath. “And you still think me a fool?”

“How could I not? Who but a fool would think that kidnapping a young girl would do anything but frighten her to death? Who but a fool would have justified it by blaming it on a few words metaphorically spoken?”

“You were quite adamant, Eleanor. More than once you mentioned getting her away from Barkwith at all costs.”

“But I never meant for you to abduct her in such a ridiculous way. It was absurd.”

“I daresay we all have an absurd notion now and then. Your own notion about Barkwith’s intentions, for example.”

“I was wrong, I admit it. Thank God I was wrong. But you know very well that I had good reason to believe in his villainy.”

“I know that you can’t get over your own hurt long enough to realize that not every man is a villain.”

“And you can’t get over the idea that not every ending is a happy one. You can’t get the idea of romance out of your foolish head.”

“You did not seem to mind a bit of romance last night.”

And without warning, she hauled off and slapped him hard across the face. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

“I think you had better leave, Eleanor,” he said, and rubbed his cheek. “I have no wish to speak to you anymore. I’m not sure I wish to know you anymore. You have betrayed my trust. You have humiliated me in public. You have made me feel a fool. Enough.”

She rose to her feet. “I thank you for all you have done to help track down Belinda, but I think we can now bring an end to our association.” She spun on her heels and stormed back across the street to the inn.

Simon dropped his head into his hands. Nothing was turning out as he’d expected. He had just sent out of his life the woman he loved. How had things gone so topsy-turvy in less than a day? How had he managed to make such a mull of everything? Perhaps he was every inch the fool she thought him.

He had sat there alone on the bench for a good quarter hour, nursing his anger. He was angry that Eleanor had trumpeted his secret for all the world to hear. He was angry that he’d ever trusted her. He was angry over the hateful words she’d thrown in his face. He was angry that her wishes, her often spoken, clearly articulated wishes, had led him to an action that had almost got him killed. He was angry that she didn’t seem to care that he might have died. He was angry that last night had meant nothing to her. He was angry at Belinda for kicking and biting him like a wild cat. He was angry with himself for trying to do something romantic. He was angry at the world.

He had worked himself into a fine rage when he heard footsteps on the gravel path. He looked up to find Nicholas looming over him.

“What the hell happened between you two?” he asked.

“I do not wish to talk about it, Nick.”

Nicholas sat down, and it was a moment before he spoke again. “She stormed into the inn a while ago and asked if she could return to London in our carriage.”

“She doesn’t want to see me again.”

“So I gathered.”

“Nor I her. Don’t you see, Nick?” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “It’s the ultimate unattainable ideal. She has made me not want her. I cannot have her because I will not have her. Isn’t that a joke? I have no more desire to succumb to that romantic weakness. I am tired of being the incurable romantic. I’m through with all of it.”

“What about last night?”

“What the devil do you mean by that?”

“No need to bite my head off. It is clear whose bed you slept in last night, that’s all. I had thought, considering all you had said after dinner, that if such a thing were to happen, it would be a fairly significant step.”

“It was. For me, anyway. But I was wrong about her.”

“And so you let her walk away?”

“I sent her away. She thinks I am a fool, Nick, and felt no qualms about betraying my secret in public. I daresay she may be right about me being a fool. Look at what happened today. I was only doing what I thought she wanted. I did it for her. So what does she do but make a public spectacle of me just for attempting to please her. And believe me, it was not a pleasant ordeal. That Belinda is a little tigress with claws. And teeth.”

“So what happens now?”

“I stop playing the fool. I am through with romantic fantasies. I will never again set myself up
for another failure. No more unattainable ideals. I’m going to find myself an eminently attainable less-than-ideal woman and be done with it. To hell with romance. And to hell with Eleanor.”

E
leanor sat beside Edwina in the hired post chaise that was not nearly as comfortable as Simon’s carriage. They were bouncing along the road south to Westmorland on the journey back to London. Nicholas had given up his place to Eleanor, while he took her place in Simon’s chariot. It was a fortuitous arrangement. She did not know what she would have done if the Parrishes had not been at hand. Belinda would not have appreciated having her aunt squeezed into the carriage between her and her bridegroom.

Simon and Nicholas had left much earlier and, of course, had the four-horse team. She and Ed
wina had only two horses, and would be much slower. There would be several hours between them. That satisfied Eleanor, who was in no mood to meet up with Simon at an inn on the way.

“I am sorry that you and Simon have quarreled,” Edwina said. “Is it a serious quarrel?”

“I’m afraid so.” Eleanor had made certain it was. She could have apologized, she could have forgiven and begged forgiveness. Something inside her, though, seemed to require her to push this lovely man away. She was not sure why she had done it. She supposed it was for the best, since there was no possibility of her heart getting broken again.

Or was it possible to break one’s own heart?

“I had thought…I had hoped…Well, let me just say I have known Simon for years and I have never seen him so besotted.”

Eleanor’s head jerked up. “What?”

“He seemed to be crazy about you. After you left the dining parlor last night, he spoke of nothing else. I had hoped that perhaps you returned his regard.”

“Oh.” Had she made a terrible mistake? “His brother said that Simon falls in love a lot. I daresay I was simply another infatuation for him. Nothing serious.”

“Malcolm is right,” Edwina said. “Simon is forever falling in love. He is always searching for the right woman, you see, and he is forever hopeful that each one is the right one. He even was a little
bit in love with me for a time, many years ago.”

“Oh?” Just as Eleanor had suspected.

“But I wasn’t the right one, either. One thing I have long known about Simon that he only just discovered: he falls in love with women who have not the remotest interest in him. They never turn out to be the right one, of course. He shrugs it off and blames it on the unattainable ideal.”

“He mentioned that term,” Eleanor said, “but I didn’t know what he meant.”

“I believe Simon so wanted to
be
a Romantic that he made as if all these women were his ideals, and therefore unattainable. But it was never true. He was just playing at romance. And writing bad poetry in the attempt.”

“Oh, dear. It
is
bad, is it not? It is not just me?”

Edwina laughed. “Most of it is positively horrid. But it is facile enough to appeal to many, so I go ahead and print some of it in the
Cabinet
from time to time.”

“Alonzo.” Eleanor shuddered.

“Just so. But Simon never even realized he was a false Romantic, until he met you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you really are his ideal. He has discovered, or thought he had, that you are the right one. I suppose he is a true Romantic now, for obviously his ideal
is
unattainable. Lord, what poetry you will inspire.”

Eleanor suddenly felt the sting of tears and choked back a sob. “But it was he who sent me away.
He didn’t want to know me anymore, he said.”

“Oh, dear. It is worse than I thought.”

“I broke his trust,” Eleanor said. “I betrayed his secret.”

“Oh, I am very much aware of that. It is my secret, too, you know. But I suspect there is no real harm done. No one at the inn knows us.”

“It was a shameful thing to do.”

“Yes, it was. But I believe it was done impetuously in the heat of the moment, and without malice. Simon knows that. But he is punishing himself for loving you.”

Eleanor could stand no more and burst into tears.

Edwina reached over and touched her hand. “My dear Mrs. Tennant! Whatever is the matter?”

“He told me he loved me and I d-didn’t believe him!”

“Ah. Because of what Malcolm said?”

“Yes, that and…other things. I was…afraid.”

“I understand, Mrs. Tennant. Believe me, I do. I often find it difficult to trust a man, too. Once one’s heart is broken, it is not easy to put oneself in the position to have it broken again.”

“Is that what h-happened to you?”

“Yes, many years ago. And I am guessing the same thing happened to you.”

“Yes, and I never want to g-go through that again.”

“No one does. But if I may play Simon’s champion for a moment, if there was ever a man to trust,
Simon is that man. He is good and honorable and decent. Yes, he is a Romantic in the broadest sense, but his idealism is true and honest. He believes in people. He has hope for the future. If my heart had not been engaged at the time, I would have fallen in love with Simon. He is a dear man.”

Eleanor was crying in earnest now. “He is. He is so d-dear. He is ad-d-dorable.”

Edwina chuckled. “Ah yes, those dimples.”

“And the w-way he blushes.”

“Lord, but he hates that. Mrs. Tennant, are you saying that you do, in fact, return his regard?”

“I d-do.” Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I think he’s w-wonderful. But I was hateful. I said s-such awful things to him. I told him he was a fool and I never w-wanted to see him again. But it was m-mostly because I was ashamed of br-breaking my promise to him.”

Edwina patted her hand. “You must do as you wish, of course, but I suspect some of those hateful words can be unsaid. I do so want to see Simon happy, and I truly think you can make him so.”

“Do you r-really?”

“Indeed. And if you are agreeable, I think I might have just the plan to get him back.”

Simon had been back in London for a week and he was no less miserable today than the day before. He had hoped this melancholy would begin to fade. It had been almost two weeks since he’d seen
her, after all. He should be forgetting her by now. It was a curious thing, though. He’d lost women before but had never been so down pin about it for so long. He couldn’t even seem to write poetry.

Of course, he had not actually lost this woman. He’d thrown her away.

One thing was clear: none of those other women had meant anything to him compared to Eleanor. He’d never felt like this, where the pain in his chest was so tight and constricting he sometimes couldn’t breathe.

He had trouble sleeping, and he even tried drinking himself into a stupor just so he could fall asleep. Strangest of all, he had no appetite. He couldn’t seem to eat more than a bite of anything. Cook had become hysterical, and his mother had called a physician.

But there was nothing wrong with his body. It was his soul that was crushed.

Simon’s days and nights—especially the nights—were filled with thoughts of Eleanor. He decided the best way to keep his mind off her was to put his mind to other things. He threw himself into work on a story for the
Cabinet
, but he found his tale sounding more like one of the tragic sagas in the
Lady’s Monthly Museum
. All his heroines were coming to bad ends. He was in no frame of mind to write an uplifting, happy-ending romance.

There was a great deal of correspondence that had piled up during his absence. Perhaps some of
it would take his mind off Eleanor. The publisher had sent several packets of letters to the Busybody. He really ought to write a few columns. The ones he had already queued up for future issues were quickly dwindling.

The first letter was from an unhappy young girl who could not attract the attention of the one man she most desired. Simon told her she was wasting her time and to move on to more promising prospects. The next letter was from a young woman with a surfeit of suitors. She described each one and asked which she should pick. Simon told her to keep looking.

The next letter was from a woman who’d driven away the man she most admired.

Simon stared at the page, unwilling to believe his eyes. Was it a trick? A joke? Could it truly be from Eleanor?

His heart began to pound like a thousand drums as he read it again. It was from her. It could be no one else. She was his Lilac Queen and she loved him. She loved him!

He wanted to climb up to the roof and shout for joy. He wanted to go to her. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her breathless. He just wanted to see her again, just to look at her.

He wanted to do everything at once, and was instead immobilized with the enormity of it all. He thought he’d lost her forever, his one true love, and never understood why. He had never been able to reconcile the warm, passionate woman of one night with the cold, snappish woman of the next morning.

She had been afraid. He ought to have known that, ought to have expected it, even. After what had happened to her, naturally she was afraid to give her heart again.

She had overcome that fear somehow, though, and written to let him know. A letter to the Busybody had brought them together once before. He hoped it would do so again.

And so before doing all those things he wanted so much to do, he would answer her letter.

And then he would ring the kitchen. He was suddenly starving.

Eleanor had been back in London for over a week. It had been a leisurely trip home, and she and Edwina Parrish had become fast friends. Once Eleanor had admitted her feelings for Simon, she had spent much of the time probing for information. She wanted to know all about France and the Revolution. She wanted to know about the various reform movements with which he was involved. She wanted to know everything about him.

Edwina must have been heartily sick of the subject by the time they reached London. Eleanor had admitted to having been jealous, thinking Simon must surely be in love with Edwina. They had laughed over that, and over many other things. Eleanor had even gone so far as to confide in Edwina about what had happened that one night between them. She had cried again to think how stupid and fearful she had been. How instead of telling him so, she had lashed out at him. She did everything she could to ensure he could never love her, angered him so much that he sent her away. She hoped to God it was not too late to undo all she’d done.

The house was quiet without Belinda. She had gone to live with her new husband, of course. Geoffrey’s father had been so pleased that his rakehell son had settled down, he had presented them with the lease on a small town house as a wedding gift.

So Eleanor was in the Charlotte Street house with only the servants for company. Constance
came by frequently, and had teased Eleanor about her adorable Busybody. But Constance had been feeling a bit out of sorts the last few days and Eleanor was left to her own devices. Frankly, she was beginning to find her own company a trial. She couldn’t concentrate on books or embroidery or anything else that had once occupied her mind. Her mind was full of Simon, and she could think of nothing else.

On the eighth day since her return from the north, she sat in the small drawing room and attempted a bit of sewing. She took up a hem and allowed her mind to wander to the ubiquitous subject of Simon. It had been almost a week since she’d sent the letter to the Busybody. Had he read it yet? Had he known it was from her? He must have. He would know at once, as she meant for him to do. Then why hadn’t she heard from him? She had expected he would call on her.

But perhaps he had not yet read the letter. Edwina said he was sometimes overwhelmed with the number of letters received and had difficulty selecting the ones for publication. She would be patient. He would get to hers eventually. And if not, she would simply send another. And another and another, until he replied.

Eleanor looked up from her sewing when the housekeeper entered with the mail. She left it on the table and departed without a word. How odd. That was not like her at all. She usually stayed to see what letters came from whom, what invitations
had arrived, and so on. She must not be feeling well, poor old dear, to have left in such a hurry.

Eleanor looked at the small stack of cards and letters. One was particularly bulky. It must be from Benjamin. It had been an age since they’d heard from him, and he always enclosed all sorts of interesting things from his travels. What would he think when he received her letter about Belinda’s marriage?

Eleanor picked up the package, but there was no indication it had come from the Naval Office or from overseas or from anywhere else, for that matter. It had only her own name on the outside. It must have been hand delivered.

Her heart began to flutter in her breast.

She opened the package to find a bright new issue of
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
…wrapped in a shiny red ribbon. She caught her breath. It was the Gypsy’s ribbon.

She untied the ribbon and found it had been tucked inside like a bookmark. It marked the page for the Busybody. Her eyes fell at once to her own letter, signed “The Lilac Queen.” She hungrily read the answer.

Eleanor gave a little squeal of delight and jumped from her seat. He was here! He was at the front door. She ran to the window to see if she could get a glimpse of him below, but the front steps were empty. He must be in the entry hall. That’s why Mrs. Davies had acted so mysteriously.