In Love With a Wicked Man (20 page)

And yet, not half an hour past, he had written Peters to give him his new direction. More telling still, he had enclosed a letter to Maggie Sloan. She would likely be relieved it was at an end; theirs had been a sporadic romance, and beautiful actresses expected to be catered to.

Edward did not cater. And Maggie—well, Maggie didn’t shed tears. Not unless she was paid to.

So, no, he was not leaving Bellecombe, was he? Not yet. He would stay as Aurélie Wentworth’s guest, just another day or two—merely to keep an eye on Lord Reginald Hoke, and ensure the man intended Kate no insult.

Or so he told himself.

It had grown cold now inside the castle walls, and dusk was coming on fast. His mind deeply conflicted, Edward turned and went back into the main house.

Only then, halfway up the steps, did he remember Annie’s pearls.

CHAPTER 10

Kate’s Quandary

K
ate went through the next few days like an automaton, socializing with her guests at breakfast and at dinner, then spending the rest of each day out and about, attending to her estate duties. She left all else to her mother—who would have done as she pleased regardless.

To her undying relief, the fine weather held and she was able to escape Reggie’s cloying attentiveness when the gentlemen went off into the valleys and woodlands in pursuit of wildfowl during the daylight hours.

With his leg so greatly improved, and his cracked collarbone opposite his gun shoulder, Edward surprised her by joining the shooting party—along with Lady Julia, who, though she was not quite so bold as to actually shoot, nonetheless tugged on her boots and went off to admire the hunters. A few neighboring gentlemen having been invited, Richard Burnham also came—not so much from any love of sport, Kate guessed, but because Nancy accompanied Aurélie daily at noon with the lavish luncheon prepared and packed by Cook.

In accordance with Aurélie’s wishes, the hampers of food—along with Bellecombe’s second-best china, white wine for the guests, and ale for the beaters—were then hauled out into the hinterlands to be laid out like a moveable feast on purpose-built folding tables made by the estate carpenter.

The tables were covered in the best Irish linen. The wine was French. Filou sat in Aurélie’s lap wearing a little scarlet coat and eating tidbits from her plate while Bellecombe’s pointers howled in protest for having done all the work with no reward.

Kate was in charity with the pointers. It was all rather farcical, really, and made all the more so since Nancy and Aurélie were driven out not on the ordinary wagons with the servants, but in Anstruther’s well-sprung curricle, since he, however irascible he pretended to be, indulged Aurélie’s every whim even as he complained of her extravagance.

In defense of Aurélie, Kate was forced to acknowledge that her mother had not been wrong in predicting Lady Julia’s behavior. By the afternoon of the second day, Julia returned to the castle with her arm linked companionably with Edward’s, waxing awestruck over the gentleman’s deadly skill, and declaring breathlessly that he had
actually allowed her to hold his gun!

Uncharitably, Kate wanted to put a gun to Lady Julia’s head.

Instead she kept her mouth shut and ate enough braised woodcock to last her until Lady Day.

Thus neglected by Lady Julia, Sir Francis turned the full of his charm upon Nancy. This brought a dark scowl to the Reverend Mr. Burnham’s face and a look of deep disapproval to Anstruther’s.
Le comte
came down with a sniffle, which he attributed to damp boots. And despite attempts both subtle and obvious, Lady Julia could not
quite
corner Edward—and his gun—alone.

In the end, no one save Aurélie was happy—and she was as giddy and gay as ever.

So far as Kate was concerned, Edward kept his distance, even at meals. Having surrendered the task of seating charts and menus over to Aurélie, Kate was irrationally irritated by her mother’s habit of putting Kate and Edward at opposite ends of every table, and situating Reggie somewhere near Kate’s elbow.

Aurélie, one could only conclude, did not grasp Kate’s definition of a cold day in hell.

Even the servants began to notice. In the village and across both Bellecombe and Heatherfields, word of Kate and Reggie’s broken betrothal had provided gossip fodder for a fortnight. Now the gossipmongers had begun to weigh the possibilities of a reconciliation; Kate could see it in their eyes, and it horrified her.

This was confirmed as she and Mrs. Peppin drove back from the village one afternoon, the housekeeper having needed a pound of beeswax and some linseed oil for waterproofing
le comte
’s boots.

“And never, miss, was there ever such a slipshod valet as de Macey’s man,” Mrs. Peppin was complaining as Kate cut her gig around Edward’s fateful milestone and started up the hill. “He can black a boot well-a-fine, I’ll grant ye, but it’s as if the fellow never met a puddle!”

“I think when Fitch comes to remove Mr. Quartermaine’s sutures this afternoon, Peppie, we should ask him to look in on the comte.” Kate was staring over her horse’s head. “I cannot like his cough.”

“This afternoon, eh?” Mrs. Peppin sniffed. “Well. I daresay Mr. Edward will pack off straightaway then. And none will be better pleased than Lord Reginald to see the back of him.”

Kate smiled as if she’d given no thought to Edward’s leaving. “Do you suggest Reggie has designs on Lady Julia, Peppie?”

“Miss Kate!” Mrs. Peppin shot a disdainful look across the gig. “Mr. Edward pays that one no mind. She just sniffs arter him like that pug running behind your mother. As to Lord Reginald, I think we know how the wind blows.”

Kate cut a dark look at the housekeeper. “Peppie, was Mrs. Shearn gossiping with you just now? When you were paying Mr. Hastings for the wax?”

Mrs. Peppin’s face colored furiously. “She were talking,” the housekeeper acknowledged, “and I were listening.”

“Ah, thank you for that fine hair-splitting!” said Kate. “And what, pray, was the good woman talking
about
?”

The housekeeper hesitated. “There’s talk in the village that Lord Reginald’s come back,” she acknowledged, “and much speculation as to whether the pair of you have reconciled.”

Kate all but turned around on the seat. “I hope you quickly disabused her.”

Mrs. Peppin shrugged. “There’s no discouraging gossip,” she said evenly, “when there are those as wish to believe it.”

“Why would anyone care?” asked Kate incredulously.

“It’s Heatherfields, miss,” said the housekeeper, “all gone to rack and ruin. A village suffers when a great house sits empty. Fewer to be employed, fewer candles and flour and soap to be bought. All totted up, Miss Kate, it do hurt.”

“And Reggie is charming,” said Kate under her breath. “That’s what it comes down to.”

“I think it’s not that,” said Mrs. Peppin musingly. “Oh, he’s the greatest charmer ever lived, but everyone knows he’s let things go. No, I think it’s you, miss. I think the village would like a proper family at Bellecombe again.”

A proper family.

She and Nancy, Kate supposed, didn’t constitute such a thing; not in the eyes of the village. No, they wanted a lord of the manor with his boots up by the fire, and half a dozen children to carry on the name. As if she did not want the same.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment to the entire countryside,” said Kate bitterly. “I wonder what everyone would have me do? Kidnap a husband?”

At that, Mrs. Peppin laid a hand on her sleeve. “Oh, miss, don’t take hard,” she said. “There’s not a soul as doesn’t want the best for you. Surely you know it?”

“Yes, I suppose.” Kate topped the next hill, and reined her cob back a bit. “But
Reggie
? Really?”

Mrs. Peppin was silent for a long moment. “Mr. Edward’s in a nasty line o’ business, I hear,” she said a little too casually.

“Indeed.” Kate felt her lips thin. “He owns a gaming hell.”

“And that is very wicked, I reckon?” said the housekeeper speculatively.

“Well, he’s hardly Circe calling from the rocks to lure men to improvidence,” said Kate. “They go of their own accord. But yes, it’s wicked. I’m sure we ought not know him. But Mamma does not care a fig for that—and I’m not sure I do. I should, I know, but . . .”

She let her words trail away. There really was no explaining, even to dear Peppie, just how she felt. Wounded. Disappointed. Thwarted.
Deceived
.

And yet she’d been deceived by no one save herself. Edward had warned her, and often. He had not known
who
he was, but he had seemed to have a sense of
what
he was.

For all you know, Lady d’Allenay
, he had said,
I am a very bad man.

It had been but the first of his many cautions. About his character. His unknown past. And yet she had not listened. Indeed, she was not even
sorry
she hadn’t listened!

Good Lord, what was she coming to?

In the passageway but a few days past, Kate had told him that she did not know Ned Quartermaine. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? She had known him all along. She had known him
intimately
. She had gone to his bed knowing his character was questionable, for he’d told her so. And given half a chance, it seemed she might do it again.

Mrs. Peppin sighed deeply. “Can you not find it in your heart to forgive Lord Reginald, then?” she said. “I know, miss, that you don’t love him, and that he’s riddled with fault, but—”

“
But I should settle?
” Kate interjected. “Oh, Peppie! Not you, too?”

“Not
settle
, lovey.” Mrs. Peppin set a hand between Kate’s shoulder blades and rubbed it in little circles as she’d done so often in Kate’s childhood. “But Heatherfields has been in the hands of Lord Reginald’s family for nearly as long as Bellecombe’s been in yours. Besides, I know you want children. And how else to get ’em if you will not go to London, and you will not have Mr. Edward?”

“Have
Edward
?” Kate could feel the warm weight of tears threaten. “He . . . Heavens, Peppie! He has not asked me. And . . . my God, a gaming hell owner? After all Bellecombe has been through? Is that not the very antithesis of what we need?”

Mrs. Peppin merely grunted. “I’d say it’s time some money flowed uphill to Bellecombe instead o’ trickling down,” she said dismissively. “Wentworth men, if you’ll pardon my saying, are mostly good at the down. Besides, ’tis no one’s business save your own.”

But it was not just Kate’s business, was it?

Even if Edward were interested in her, what of Nancy’s prospects? Nancy, who wished so desperately to be a rector’s wife. Mightn’t a scandal ruin that prospect? And what about Aunt Louisa with three young daughters yet to bring out? And Uncle Upshaw’s certain outrage?

Aurélie’s antics were trouble enough to Lord and Lady Upshaw, but should Kate—the titular head of the Wentworths, and the one they depended on to behave rationally—oh, should
she
make such a scandalous match . . .

Well, it was out of the question.

As she had just said, Edward had not asked her, nor would he. The very notion was mad. Besides, there could not possibly be any place in such a man’s life for marriage, let alone children. But he was still every inch a man—and quite a lot of inches there were, too, if she was any judge. And while even a green fool could see Edward was not the marrying kind, mightn’t he—with a little coaxing—return to her bed?

Must the rest of her days be not just barren, but something worse?

Kate thought again of the shimmering dress her mother had brought from Paris; of the low neckline and the way the too-snug bodice pushed up her breasts. Heavens, if that wasn’t coaxing, she didn’t know what was.

Then, realizing the perilous path her thoughts were taking, Kate shut her eyes. Good Lord, gambling and wickedness had impoverished her childhood and the entire estate. Did she now mean to literally climb in bed with it?

But last time, she had not climbed, had she? Edward had urged her down into the softness of the bed linen, crawling over her like some lithe, golden predator . . .

“In any case,” said Mrs. Peppin, as if reading her thoughts, “that one’s as fine a man as ever I’ve laid eyes on—and I’ve seen him naked, mind. No real charm, o’course. But charm won’t keep a woman warm at night.”

“Peppie,” said Kate tightly, “you’re not helping me.”

“Well, the Lord helps them as help themselves,” said Mrs. Peppin, “and if I were young as you, miss, I might be helping myself to that man.”

“Peppie.” Kate clasped a hand over her eyes. “This is scandalous.”

“Yes, mayhap,” said the housekeeper, “but don’t tell me, miss, you weren’t thinking it.”

Kate did not tell her. Instead, she set a spanking pace for home.

So everyone expected her to do the sensible thing, did they? To marry Reggie, and be glad the scoundrel would have her? Well, they could all go to the devil. She was getting tired of being dependable and predictable and sensible.

She was going to go home and try on the dress—
without
the fichu.

She was going make a fool of herself.

Again.

B
ELLECOMBE’S ILLUSTRIOUS PARTY
numbered a lively twelve for dinner that evening. It being customary for the great house to entertain the local gentry on such occasions, several neighbors had been invited. And Aurélie, of course, had again demanded the put-upon Anstruther’s attendance.

They sat down to dinner in good spirits, with Edward finding himself situated between Lady Julia and Squire Cockram’s wife, whom he’d met only briefly, the day he’d embarrassed Kate in her drawing room. As usual, the pug lay under the table at Mrs. Wentworth’s feet, occasionally rising to snuffle about on the floor. Edward was beginning to grasp the means by which the lady preserved her svelte figure.

Throughout the meal, he listened attentively to Julia’s chatter but found himself bored, and incapable of keeping his eyes from cutting down the table in Kate’s direction. He had become accustomed, he realized, to her simple mode of dress—and if asked, he would have said he much preferred it.

But that was before he’d seen the gold and green confection that bared her lovely shoulders, wrapped her slender waist like a second skin, and . . . well, there was no peace to be had in observing what it did to the rest of her fine attributes.

He was not alone in admiring it. Even before the party had sat down to dinner, Lord Reginald had alternated between allowing his gaze to drift lazily—almost possessively—down Kate’s length, and shooting dark glances across the room at Edward.

Reggie’s snit was the least of Edward’s concerns; the fellow was nothing but a nuisance so far as he could see. But then the party reunited in the drawing room, and Lady Julia leaned into him in a cloud of too-sweet perfume.

“Will they make a match of it, do you imagine, Mr. Quartermaine?” she murmured, making a discreet gesture toward the pair who stood alone together in a private corner. “De Macey thinks not, but Sir Francis has wagered him twenty pounds.”