Her Husband’s Lover (24 page)

‘Your behaviour doesn’t warrant my respect. Look to correcting that before you find fault with my manners.’

She maintained a look of hurt, despite a calculating glint in her eyes. ‘How curious. I was under the impression that it was you, not I, who fled London under a cloud of scandal. You’re the one who has blackened the family honour and caused us such disgrace.’

Sometimes the audacity of the woman astonished him. He knew plain and simple that she had been responsible for all the enlightening newspaper epithets. Having made her speech she turned her head, glancing sideways at the others present. Interestingly, neither Littleton nor Oxbury offered any support or defence, while Mr Hill merely eyed her sceptically, as if he were not entirely sure what to do with her, and thought it might be best if he simply washed his hands of the problem. In fact he did just that, ringing for a servant and suggesting that the gentlemen might adjourn to the library for refreshments, leaving Darleston behind to speak with his lady.

The moment the parlour door closed, leaving them the sole occupants, Lucy flounced over to the love seat and settled in the spot Littleton had so recently warmed.

‘Why have you come here?’ Darleston demanded.

Lucy peeled off her gloves and tapped the seat with them. ‘Come sit. Honestly, Robert, don’t be such a bore. If you will insist on gallivanting about the countryside without leaving a forwarding address, how else do you expect me to contact you?’

He ignored the instruction to sit. ‘You have no cause to contact me. We’re done. A fact you’re perfectly aware of.’

‘We’ve had a few misunderstandings, that’s all. Now sit down. Be a good little lord. We’ve matters to discuss.’

Darleston instead wandered over to the window. It pained him to turn his back upon her – she was certainly capable of making a fatal attack – but he refused to bow to her wishes. Why couldn’t she have stayed away, contented herself with her flock of admirers and debauchers and left him to the wonder of sharing Lyle and Emma’s love?

After a few moments of letting her stew, he turned to face her once more. ‘I say again, what do you want, Lucy? I’ve no interest in any sort of reconciliation. Your actions are neither forgiven nor forgotten.’

Now that they were alone, her smile drooped. She clasped her hands tight upon her lap, opened her mouth but for several seconds failed to speak. Darleston waited. Surely she hadn’t really imagined that all would suddenly be right between them, simply because they’d spent a few months apart.

‘I thought you ought to know that I’m pregnant.’

For several unsteady moments he stared at her tightly corseted form in bewildered silence. There was no obvious thickening of her waist yet, but he knew enough to be aware that not all women showed so early. Besides, elegance mattered far more to Lucy than the welfare of any babe she carried. He doubted she’d abandon her tight lacing no matter how swollen she became around the middle.

‘Well?’ she prompted.

‘No,’ he said. Not refuting her claim, only the claim upon his person. ‘You can’t honestly expect me to believe it is mine.’

‘I need money to set up a household.’

That was confirmation enough to quell any lingering doubts. She couldn’t even be bothered to argue the point. ‘Then you had best go and petition the father for funds.’

‘I’m your wife.’

He nodded. ‘Only through dire misfortune. That in itself changes nothing. I won’t acknowledge your bastard as mine. I won’t see a child of yours inherit.’ Clearly the fact that he’d tolerated her indiscretions with his brother had given her the impression that he’d accept whatever base-born child she cared to give him. ‘My resolve is quite unshakable in that regard. I suggest you take yourself abroad to the Continent for a while if you wish to avoid scandal.’

‘If I wish to avoid it. What do you think they will say about you, if you refuse to acknowledge the child as your own?’

Quite startlingly he found his humour. ‘To be honest, I don’t actually care. It won’t be anything that hasn’t already been said about me and plenty of others before. Now, see if you can find it within yourself to vacate the premises and stop embarrassing the good people who live here.’

‘What if I told you that the father is Ned?’

‘Then I would know you were lying. He’s seen no more of you than I and is equally disgusted by your actions. Who is the father?’ He stood before her so that his shadow loomed across her seated form. ‘Do you actually have any inkling?’

Lucy’s lips became tightly pursed. She stood abruptly, so that they were breast to breast, a mere inch apart. ‘Of course I do.’ She jabbed him hard in the stomach. ‘It’s you.’ He knew then that she’d never say otherwise, whatever the truth.

* * *

Find her sister. Find Lyle. Emma couldn’t find anyone while she remained stuck in her father’s study. Grafton and an army of servants occupied the hall and front steps, busy organising the delivery of luggage to relevant quarters. She didn’t want to intrude or become embroiled in a discussion of where the new arrivals ought to be housed. Additionally, after Darleston’s warning to avoid his person, she dared not take that particular route, for fear that her father might spy her and call upon her to greet the new guests.

Could she bob Lady Darleston a curtsy and then look her in the eyes and not give away the fact that she had been intimate with her husband? How had she come to dismiss his wife so easily in the first place? Darleston had seemed so apart from her, she supposed, as if there was no connection between them. She’d only worried over what Lyle would think of her stealing his lover, not about this shadowy spectre that rumour suggested was responsible for the scandalous slights to Darleston’s reputation.

The fact that she had seen him disporting with Lyle did not prove that he’d engaged in such practices in London. Well, it was nice to turn a blind eye to such thoughts, even though he’d spelled out to her that he’d never been a saint. Still ruminating the problem, Emma returned to the window casement and stepped back out onto the lawn. She turned away from the front of the house and strode around the protruding east wing to the kitchen yard.

Waddling geese and a few ducks frolicked on the edge of a vast puddle that covered two thirds of the cobblestone yard. A line of rags hung over it, steadily being bleached by the sun.

Now, where would she find Lyle at this hour? Presumably he’d led the party of guests out somewhere so that her father was free to greet the new arrivals. That meant she’d most likely find both Lyle and Amelia over at the training grounds. A weary sigh wound its way free of her throat. Everything had seemed so wonderful a few moments ago; now her nerves were in shreds and she would have to brave the old barn and the possibility of Lyle’s wrath.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Lyle rushed straight to her the moment she set foot inside the old barn. He knew how much she hated coming here, if not the intimate details of why. Emma deliberately kept her head turned away from the sounds of fighting, but somehow that made things worse. She’d turned away in the past too, and turned Bea’s head as well in order to hide the worst of life from her. That dirty flea-ridden pit where her father had held the first fight had been no place for his offspring, and, although this current training room was rather more salubrious, she still balked at seeing Amelia squeezed in alongside the gentlemen.

‘The new guests have arrived,’ she said tersely, aware that those gentlemen were all looking at her. Lyle waved their attention back to the fight and guided her through to the little antechamber that had once housed tack and saddles. Even ten years on, the cobblestone room still retained a lingering smell of saddle soap. He huddled close to her without touching.

‘What –?’ Lyle asked, not bothering to complete the question.

‘Darleston’s wife is here. He said I should tell you, and that we’re to keep our distance. He begged that we keep Amelia from making insinuations too.’

Lyle’s nostrils flared a little. At once his shoulders rose. He paced, one fist pressed to his lips. ‘What does she want? Do you know?’

Emma shook her head. ‘I haven’t even seen her.’ She wished Darleston had allowed her that much, but he’d pushed her inside before she’d glimpsed more than the back end of the landau. Would Lady Darleston live up to her husband’s exquisite taste and flair for fashion? She couldn’t imagine her to be a sorry little dower mouse.

Lyle uncurled his fingers and began gnawing his thumbnail. ‘We’d better do as he says and stay here. We don’t want to provide that storm crow with any more ammunition against him.’

‘What about Amelia?’

Lyle gave a snort followed by a woeful shake of his head. ‘I suppose Darleston told you what she said.’

What she’d said? She’d already mentioned something beyond the exchange they’d had in the upstairs corridor.

‘No. I only know that she made certain assumptions after she spied me coming from Darleston’s room this morning. She threatened to say something to Father, but I’m not sure she will. She knows it would backfire and result in her removal to Aunt Maude’s house, which is the last thing she wants.’

‘Ah!’ Lyle’s response failed to inspire confidence. ‘Then perhaps we might quell her with a few leniencies.’

Emma shrugged. ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but I’d still be wary of trusting her. She’s been ghastly the last few days. I’m not sure the gentlemen are paying her as much regard as she’d like.’

A brief smile quickened upon Lyle’s lips. ‘Actually, I think one gentleman in particular isn’t paying her as much regard as she’d like.’

When Emma opened her mouth to enquire who, Lyle merely brushed the issue aside. ‘I’m not even sure that saying any more to her than I already have will do any good. Matter of fact, it might simply draw further attention to the subject. Mayhap we should just let things play out.’

‘Who is it, Lyle? You know Father won’t allow her to marry Bathhouse.’

‘Not him. She’s simply teasing him. I think her genuine affection lies elsewhere and has been brewing for rather longer.’

‘Who?’

Lyle shot a glance over his shoulder.

‘Harry?’ Emma hissed in surprise. ‘Goodness. I’m not sure that’s any better.’

‘Your father trusts him.’

‘As his secretary.’

‘It could work. I don’t want to inherit this – do you?’

No. No, she didn’t want Field House or her father’s stable of prize-fighters. She’d gladly never expose herself to either again. ‘So he’s why she’s been coming here?’

Lyle gave her a discreet nod. ‘I don’t think you need to fret over it. Harry’s not given to risk-taking. He’s learned his lesson on that score. I’ve promised him that I’ll sound your father out over the idea of a match once the fight’s done with. That might win us a little favour with Amelia. We just have to survive another twenty-four hours or so.’

‘You’re buying her silence.’

‘Not just that, Emma. I genuinely believe she and Harry will make one another happy.’

Emma wasn’t as convinced, but they left it at that. She spent the remainder of the day idling in the amphitheatre. She couldn’t linger within the barn and listen to the sounds of the men belting nine shades of hell out of one another, especially as the ghostly voices of her siblings seemed to rise with those of the gentlemen. Nor could she avoid casting concerned glances at Amelia and Harry Quernow. Were they in love? Could it work? Would her father approve?

The questions troubled her even in the tranquillity of the amphitheatre, but at least she was free to entertain her concerns without being spied on.

Come evening, when the aphids droned in swarms beneath the trees and the scent of mulchy earth permeated the still air, Emma finally returned to the house. Grafton stood in the hallway when she entered. ‘I’m so pleased you’re returned, Mrs Langley. I wondered if you could peruse the seating arrangement for dinner? Since there are additional guests I’ve had to switch things around a little from how you’ve been sitting.’

Emma gave the butler an appreciative smile. He always took extra care of such matters as sitting precedence. ‘I’m sure whatever you’ve decided will be perfect, Grafton.’ The man had more experience of society dinners than she did. Lyle had offered for her before she’d ever begun a season.

Emma realised her mistake after she took her place at the dining table and found she’d been placed between Darleston and Mr Phelps, with Lady Darleston diagonally opposite. That lady was a rather intriguing antithesis of what she’d presumed her to be. She’d expected aloofness, dissatisfaction, rather than the winsome, smiling and complimentary woman whose gaze often locked with hers. Try as she might, she couldn’t discern the harpy Darleston made her out to be. Then again, perhaps that was because he was entirely absent. His chair beside her remained empty throughout the entirety of the meal. She exchanged significant looks with Lyle across the table, but there was no opportunity to enquire about Darleston’s absence. Her father, who sat closer, offered no enlightenment on the subject either, and she did not wish to interrupt his conversation with Mr Oxbury to draw attention to the matter.

‘Good gracious, what are those?’ Mr Littleton prodded a fork into a carefully arranged pyramid of peas slathered with butter. ‘Are they some manner of pickle?’

‘Peas,’ Amelia supplied brightly. ‘We grow them in the garden.’

Horror transformed his rather rubbery features into a mass of folds and turned his complexion an unflattering shade of puce. ‘You mean they come out of the ground, all covered in dirt?’

‘No,’ Amelia replied, clearly uncertain if she was being made the foil for some sort of joke. ‘They grow in pods that dangle down from the plant. Aren’t they fashionable in London?’ Trust Amelia to think along those lines. Suddenly the ins and outs of the
demi monde
were of utmost importance and to the devil with common sense.

‘Oh, I never eat anything that’s come out of the ground save the occasional onion soup,’ Littleton enlightened her. ‘Really, you’re much safer sticking to a good diet of meat, with a little fish for variety, and I do like to steer clear of too much piecrust.’