Lady Dearing's Masquerade (26 page)

Perhaps she had been wronged so many times that she truly had lost heart.

He picked up the list Bromhurst had given him and copied out the next name and direction. Doggedly, he wrote out yet another neat copy of his standard solicitation letter, folded and sealed it.

He took up the list again, but it faded before his eyes as he thought again of Livvy at the Foundling Hospital, holding back tears. She’d twisted a knife in her own heart as well as his. Why?

He forced himself to write and sign yet another letter, but as he laid it upon the growing pile on his desk, a sense of futility stole over him. Was he truly doing this for the children? Or for himself, to fill the emptiness of his life with something that had a semblance of meaning?

He closed his eyes. He had only to think of the children at Rosemead, to remember that without the Foundling Hospital they might be dead, to know that his work had meaning.

God, he missed them, too. They might even be missing him.

Why had she done this to all of them?

All he could think was that her fears outweighed her love. That her wounds ran too deep for his healing. Helplessly, he raged at her dead husband, the nameless viper who had blackened her reputation, her worthless nephew. And finally, at her.

He raged at himself for not finding a way to make things right.

He fought the urge to sweep paper, pen and ink pot off the desk in one grand, stupid, melodramatic gesture. Instead, he rose to follow impulses that had haunted him for months now.

Carrying his candle, he left the room, heading toward the entrance hall. He crossed the cold stone floor, climbed the steps and turned left, toward the corner room traditionally occupied by the mistress of the household.

He reached the door and briefly leaned his forehead against the dark wood. In the hush and gloom it was easy to remember the smell of his mother’s perfume, the angry voices. But they were gone now.

As was Cecilia.

He thrust the door open and looked in. Though the furnishings were shrouded in protective coverings and the wallpaper had faded a bit, all else was exactly as it had been when he’d had the suite redecorated prior to his marriage. His dead wife had left no mark on this room, though this was where they had consummated their marriage, where she had given birth and watched their tiny daughter die, where she had slipped away from life a few years later.

There was nothing here for him; no clue to the maze that was his life.

He turned and closed the door quietly, then made his way to the third floor. To the nursery.

The wavering circle of light from his candle illuminated faded carpet and more furniture in covers. All was as it had been; they had never discussed what to do with the room’s contents, allowing it to fade slowly, visited only by servants.

He roamed around, picking up the rattle he’d rushed to buy as soon as he’d learned Cecilia was in the family way. There, on a shelf lay the other toys: the lamb on wheels, the Noah’s ark, so like the one Robbie enjoyed. The rocking horse, still standing in the corner, its painted eyes staring into nothingness. He gave the thing a single push, and it continued to rock for a while, an illusion of life in a place where there was none.

He should have persuaded Cecilia to sell these things, or give them away. Better yet, they should have brought Mary home, along with a few other children to form the family nature had denied them. But it was not the
done
thing. Governors sometimes hired children in their teens to work on their estates; no one took in younger ones to raise as their own.

The only one to do such a thing was Livvy.

He pushed away thoughts of hedgehogs and Banbury cakes and stumbled toward the hearth. Something above it caught his eye. He lifted the candle and went closer. It was a framed sampler that Cecilia had brought with her upon her marriage. He set his candle on the mantel and unhooked the picture from the wall. Holding it close, he examined the twining flowers and birds, the typical pious schoolgirl verse, all worked in tiny, exquisitely neat stitches.

My Fathers in Heaven and Earth below,

Rightful paths to me do show.

In humble and obedient ways,

I will honor them for all my days.

Cecilia Norris, July 12, 1796

She’d been . . . ten when she worked this. The same age as Mary was now. He reread the verses.
Humble and obedient.

Only twice had Cecilia ever asked anything of him. After her second miscarriage. And on her deathbed.

He slammed the sanctimonious lines against the wall.

The sampler fell to the floor in a mangled heap of wood and fabric. He stared down at it, his anger fading to remorse. It was all he had of Cecilia, the one object that resonated with her restrained, gentle character. He ought to preserve it, in her memory.

He bent down to the wreckage. The frame was splintered beyond repair, but the sampler itself was undamaged. As he removed it from the frame, something fluttered out from the space between the sampler and its backing. As the pale, delicate thing drifted to the floor, he stared, disbelief turning to shock, shock bringing a resurgence of anger.

At last he began to understand.

Chapter 20

“Good God! How can you sit there and tell me what you did was for the best?” Jeremy leaned furiously over the desk in Bromhurst’s study.

“I could not afford to risk any further scandal,” Bromhurst muttered. “But how did you guess?”

“I knew there was only one reason Livvy would have thrown away our chance for happiness: her children.”

And once he had come to that realization, a terrible weight had lifted from his chest. Now Bromhurst had confirmed it; Livvy had jilted him only under coercion from Sir Digby. Hope simmered just beneath his anger; he turned his focus back to his one-time friend.

“And I knew there was just one person who had the power to coerce her into crying off.”

Bromhurst’s mouth twisted. “I stand by my actions. It was the best compromise I could think of, once Sir Digby started his mischief.”

“Livvy came to you for help, and you threatened her with the loss of her children. You call that a compromise? You call yourself a friend?”

“Don’t you see that if there had been any other way, anything else I could have done, I would have?”

“No, damn you! I don’t see! How could you treat her so? If you knew all that she has suffered already . . . You
do
know!” he exclaimed, seeing the guilty redness on Bromhurst’s face.

Bromhurst’s hands shook but he met Jeremy’s gaze levelly. “It was my duty to assess her character and her motives before allowing her to take one of our children home with her. I am not a heartless man; I have done what I could for her, within the limits of my responsibilities to the Hospital.”

“You did what you could?” Jeremy leaned back over the desk. “You knew that Dearing beat her? And you still did this to her? Damn you!”

The rustle of skirts behind him caused him to turn around. Lady Bromhurst stood behind him, anxious lines in her face belying her dignified manner.

He turned and bowed with exaggerated politeness. “My apologies for shouting. I promise you I will not hit your husband, no matter how sorely tempted I am to do so.”

“Very proper,” she said, inclining her head. “But I agree that you have every right to feel angry with Bromhurst.”

“Amelia! What are you saying?” her husband cried.

She gave him a disdainful look. “I told you we should have informed him of what was happening. Now that I have heard poor Lady Dearing’s story I feel even more certain that we behaved very wrongly. Have you at least told Sir Jeremy what you have planned for tonight?”

“I had not gotten to that,” Bromhurst muttered. “I still think he should stay out of it. Matters are well in hand.”

“Well in hand, when two fine people are made miserable by it?” She sniffed. “I am disappointed in you. I thought you more clever than that, but perhaps age is addling your wits.”

“And you are becoming foolishly sentimental!” He scowled. “But Jeremy does not need to hear us arguing, my love.”

“Don’t
my love
me! Don’t even think of saying such words if you can’t find it in your heart to help dear Sir Jeremy and his Livvy.”

Stunned, Jeremy watched Lady Bromhurst bully her husband into submission.

“Calm yourself, Amelia,” begged Lord Bromhurst. “If you and Louisa Fairhill can find a way to mend Lady Dearing’s reputation, well, perhaps Jeremy and I can put our heads together to solve our problems with Sir Digby Pettleworth.”

“Ah, now you are being reasonable.” She bestowed a tolerant smile on her husband and nodded to Jeremy. “I think I must pay a visit to Louisa now. I shall leave the two of you together to plan a proper comeuppance for Sir Digby.”

She sailed out of the room, leaving Jeremy and Bromhurst to look at each other warily.

“
Women,
” Bromhurst grumbled. “First she tells me it’s hopeless, and now she blames me for believing her.” He let out a nervous bellow of laughter.

Jeremy did not smile.

“Lad, you have to forgive me. It’s a wretched mess, but I was thinking of the children. I can’t say it will turn out right, either. But I promise you I’ll try.”

Jeremy sat back in his seat, not immune to Bromhurst’s obvious remorse. And he needed the man’s help.

“Thank you. Now tell me what you have planned.”

* * *

From his position just inside the door of the corner suite at the Pulteney, Jeremy glanced at the clock on the mantel. By the single branch of candles he saw it was nearly ten o’clock. He doubted Sir Digby would be late.

He continued to listen closely, hoping to discern the sound of approaching footsteps above the beat of rain against the windows. Finally, he heard someone in the hallway. A moment later, the door handle turned.

“Hello! Where are you?” Sir Digby’s voice quavered. “Are you in the bedchamber, darling?”

Sir Digby closed the door behind him. When he came face to face with Jeremy, he screamed like a woman.

In a single, swift movement, Jeremy seized his neck with one black-gloved hand and covered his mouth with the other.

He hoped the rainstorm had muffled the coward’s shriek.

“If you scream again, I’ll snap your neck,” he said in a loud whisper, disguising his voice. “Nod your head if you promise to keep quiet.”

Sir Digby’s eyes bulged, but he nodded.

Jeremy thrust him toward a chair in the middle of the room. Sir Digby fell into it, trembling and massaging his neck.

“Damn you, Arlingdale! What are you going to do to me?”

He grinned, allowing his teeth to show through the mouth hole of his mask.

“Ask you a few questions,” he hissed.

“I’ll—I’ll tell you whatever you wish to know. Please don’t hurt me!”

Donning the guise of Death again had been a master stroke.

“Do you think you do not deserve to suffer?”

“I meant no harm. Lady Dearing agreed to meet me here, you know, and—”

“Of her own free will?”

“I—I was obliged to use some persuasion, but—”

“You threatened her with the removal of her children, did you not?”

Sir Digby cowered. Jeremy leaned over the chair and repeated his question, still using a stage whisper.

“Y-yes, I did. B-but I thought she was no longer your mistress. I thought she’d got that high and mighty Fairhill on her hook.”

“It so happens that I believe she and Sir Jeremy would make a very fine match of it.” He straightened back up.

“You—you do?”

“Lady Dearing was never my mistress.”

“N-no? My apologies, Arlingdale, but you cannot blame me for believing what seemed to be common knowledge . . . can you? You’re not going to call me out, are you?”

Jeremy bared his teeth again. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Or perhaps I shall leave that honor to Sir Jeremy. I wonder which of us would enjoy it most?”

At that moment a crack of thunder sounded. Lightning flashed, penetrating even the drawn curtains.

Sir Digby shivered violently. Jeremy hoped he hadn’t terrified him into palpitations. At least not before he had finished the interrogation.

“You—you aren’t Arlingdale, are you? Who are you?” Sir Digby breathed.

“Quiet.”

Sir Digby shrank back in the chair.

“You have confessed to threatening Lady Dearing into this assignation. Do you also confess that at the same time you coerced her into crying off from her engagement to Sir Jeremy Fairhill?”

Sir Digby nodded.

“Say it.”

“Very well, I confess. It was for the good of the Foundling Hospital! I could not bear the thought of the scandal, the damage to Sir Jeremy’s good name—”

This time an upraised hand was enough to stop him.

“You are becoming a bore.”

Jeremy allowed the fat dandy a moment to squirm before continuing.

Thunder sounded again. Jeremy waited for it to subside before moving on to his next question. “Did you not try to force your attentions upon a lady at a masquerade three years ago?”

“I—I did.”

“And when she refused to comply with your wishes, did you sell damaging information about her to
The Morning Intelligencer
?”

“Yes.” The word was barely a squeak.

“And have you continued this vile trade in gossip since then, even publishing a piece that could have damaged the credibility of one of the Governors of the Foundling Hospital and threatening to do it again?”

Sir Digby gulped, then nodded.

Jeremy leaned back over him.

“Yes, yes, I admit it! Will you let me leave now?”

“I have one more question. You have claimed to have a friend who is party to all these secrets. You will now reveal that friend’s identity.”

“M-must I?”

“If you wish to avoid giving me the pleasure of flooring you as I did three years ago at the masquerade.”

Sir Digby shrank back in his seat.

“I might not stop there.” Jeremy yanked him up by his cravat and held on to his throat.