The Devil's Web (36 page)

“You made a wonderful choice of wife, Dom,” she said.
“I am so glad for you.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I'm glad for me too. Why did the world come to an end?”

“He has a mistress,” she said. “And he has a nine-year-old son by her. The boy even looks like him. And yet I am to be raged at when I make a friend of another man.”

“A particular man?” he asked.

“The Duke of Peterleigh's steward,” she said. “An amiable man who has been kind to me. It is his sister who is James's mistress. It hurt him to tell me.”

“It hurt whom?” he asked. “James or the steward?”

“Carl,” she said. “Carl Beasley.”

“He told you?”

“Only when I had seen enough to thoroughly arouse my suspicions,” she said.

“And this man is your friend?” Dominic asked. “And your husband objects to the friendship?”

“Yes,” she said dully. “I think he thought we were embracing, but Carl was merely holding my hands after he had been forced to tell me.”

Dominic muttered an oath that Madeline was too weary to object to. “You are quite sure that what he told you is true?” he asked.

“Yes, quite sure.” Her voice was toneless. “They were alone together in a room just before Carl took me outside.”

“And yet,” he said, “what your husband thought he witnessed was not quite the way it seemed, was it?”

“You are saying that James's being alone with Mrs.
Drummond was innocent?” she said, lifting her head away from him and turning to look at him with weary eyes. “I think not, Dom. And there is the child.”

“
Mrs.
Drummond?” he said. “And what is Mr.
Drummond's role in all this, pray?”

“I think he probably does not know,” she said. “Though he must know that the boy is James's. He looks so different from the other Drummond children. But his brothers found James and her together and were furious. They even threatened him.”

Dominic sighed and put a hand to his brow. “Did you confront him with all this, Mad?” he asked. “Or did you just take fright and flight, in that order?”

“He was too busy raging at me over Carl,” she said. “I left the next morning.”

“And what happened during the night between?” he asked and watched her flush deeply and bite her lip. He raised his eyebrows. “One of those fights, was it? I don't know, Mad. I should go up there perhaps, should I? Find out the truth and kill him or draw his cork if what you say is true?”

She looked at him indignantly. “You will do no such thing,” she said. “I have left him, Dom. Forever. I told him in the note I left behind that he may go to hell for all I care,
and I meant it. I have no more interest in James Purnell, Lord Beckworth. He was an unfortunate, unpleasant episode in my life. Now I have the rest of my life to get on with. You see?” She held up her left hand, palm in. “I have thrown away his wedding ring.”

“Mad!” he said gently, taking her by the shoulders and drawing her against him as her face crumpled before his eyes and she began to wail. “Oh, Mad.”

“How humiliating!” she said, sniffing and snorting and hiccuping. “How dreadfully mortifying. And it's all your fault. I was not going to tell anyone anything. It's nobody's business but mine. It's certainly not yours, Dominic. You have your own family and are managing it beautifully. Do you think it is not humiliating to come crawling back home like this from a broken marriage and a husband who prefers another woman to me? And always did. The child is nine years old.” She pounded the sides of her fists against his chest.

“Hush,” he said soothingly against her ear. “Hush now.”

And she sagged against him and stopped the tirade abruptly. She could hear someone else's voice, also against her ear, telling her to hush. And she could feel someone else's arms about her as he said it. And she had quietened for him because he had loved her and satisfied her and not turned away from her immediately after.

She pushed away from her brother. “Do you remember in Brussels?” she said. “After you and Ellen had broken up? And you started to fight back to life, determined that you were going to get better and not let yourself be destroyed by anyone, even if you loved her? Do you remember, Dom?”

He nodded. “It's one of the hardest things in this world to do,” he said.

“But you succeeded,” she said. “And you would have made a meaningful life for yourself, wouldn't you, even if you had not married her after all?”

“Yes,” he said, “if there had been no help for it, I think I would have gone on living. Not just surviving, but living.”

“Well,” she said, “I am not your twin for nothing, Dom.
I am more than a survivor too. I love James. I can't hide that from you, can I? And at this very moment I am terrified and quite convinced that life can hold nothing for me if I don't have him. But I don't have him and never will, for I have far too much pride ever to share him with another woman. And so I must learn to live without him. And I will learn. Don't expect me to weep all over you ever again.”

“And glad I am to hear it,” he said, setting a comradely arm about her shoulders and leading her to a sofa. “My valet sweated blood tying this neckcloth and now it looks like a limp rag. He will sulk for a week.”

“Oh, Dom,” she said, “I have missed you so.”

“We were hoping to see you at Christmas,” he said.

“James said we might come,” she said. “But I would not because I did not want anyone to see that we were not perfectly happy together. A laughable scruple under present circumstances, was it not? What do you think of Edmund and Alexandra having another child?”

“I am delighted for them,” he said, “since they are so very pleased about it themselves.”

“I am so envious,” she said. “I wish I could have had just one child before all this happened. But how foolish. I could not have left then, could I, and he would not have let me go. Do you think Mama and Ellen are counting sequins on that gown?”

“What gown?” he said, and they both chuckled.

• • •

T
HE
E
ARL OF
A
MBERLEY
stood in the doorway of the music room and watched his wife. She was playing her own composition on the pianoforte, as she so often did, while Caroline stood beside her, her elbows on the stool, her chin resting on her hands, staring up at her. Christopher was lying on his stomach at the other side of the room, painting. Nanny Rey would scold them all indiscriminately. According to her notions, paints had no business anywhere else but in the nursery.

They all saw him at the same moment. Caroline danced across the room and hugged one of his legs. Christopher picked up his painting and brought it for inspection.
Alexandra smiled at him and stopped playing.

“You are back already,” she said. “I thought you were to be at the village all morning, Edmund.”

“I decided to come back early,” he said, swinging his daughter up into his arms, tousling his son's hair, and advancing into the room. “Kisses, princess?” He turned his head to meet the puckered mouth of his daughter.

“Come,” Alexandra said, crossing the room and setting her hands on her son's shoulders after looking carefully at his painting, “let's take you back to Nanny Rey. I will play for you again tomorrow, Caroline, shall I? Are you going to wash your own brushes, Christopher, so that Nanny doesn't scold?”

She soon had the children upstairs and settled. She left the nursery and tucked her arm through her husband's.

“What is wrong?” she asked, leading him in the direction of her sitting room.

“How do you know there is something wrong?” he asked, smiling at her.

“Edmund!” she said. “I have been married to you for
almost five years. A poor wife I would be if I did not know instantly when you had something on your mind.”

“It used to amaze me,” he said, “how Madeline and Dominic used to understand each other so well even without the medium of words. Now I can experience it too with you.” He leaned down and kissed her on the nose before standing aside so that she could precede him into the sitting room.

“So,” she said, turning to him as he closed the door behind them, “what is it?”

“I intercepted the mail in the village,” he said. “There's a letter from Dominic. Madeline is in London.”

Her face lit up. “Will they come here?” she asked. “Or can we go there? Can we, Edmund?”

“She is alone,” he said.

She looked at him in incomprehension.

“She has left James.” He looked at her as she sat down straight-backed on the nearest chair. “Dominic did not give details, but it does not sound like a petty quarrel. She has really left him. Are you all right, Alex?”

She was sitting pale on her chair, staring at him.

“I knew it could not work,” she said. “It would have been too good to be true. He gave up so many years to stay with me until I could be happy. And all I have ever wanted for him is his happiness. I thought perhaps he would find it. I thought perhaps Madeline would be right for him. And he for her. But it would have been too good to be true.”

“She is pretty distraught, according to Dominic,” he said. “Putting a brave face on it, as one might expect with Madeline, and smiling and talking and declaring that she will make a new life for herself. But quite broken up and ready to fly into pieces at the smallest provocation.”

She bit her lip. “But why did James let her go?” she asked. “Where is he, Edmund?”

He shook his head. “Not in London when Dominic wrote this letter anyway,” he said. “What do you want me to do, Alex? Write to him? Go to him? Will you be hurt if I go to London to see Madeline?”

“Hurt?” She frowned. “Why should I be hurt?”

He sat down opposite her and smiled ruefully. “It has struck me throughout the return ride from the village,” he said, “that you and I could easily be caught on opposite sides of the fence on this one, Alex. Whatever has happened between them, it would be natural for you to take James's part and equally natural for me to take Madeline's.
Can we talk sensibly now and prevent that from happening?”

She leaped to her feet. “Oh, no,” she said. “That is absurd, Edmund. I love Madeline, who is my sister by two separate close ties. I could not turn against her. And as for taking sides, that would be the most stupid thing we could do. They have a problem, and doubtless it has been compounded by foolishness and all the misunderstandings and stubbornness that come so easily when one lives close to someone else. You taught me very early in our marriage how to combat those occasions. You have always made me talk to you, and you have always talked to me. Are we to quarrel over someone else's quarrel when we have learned to avoid our own?”

He sat back in his chair and smiled at her. “You are angry with me,” he said.

“I certainly am.” Her eyes were flashing. “Don't you trust me to be as committed to your family as I am to my own? My children are your family. They have your name.”

He was on his feet too suddenly and taking her by the
arms. “I am sorry, love,” he said. “Forgive me? I was terrified that your attachment to your brother would cause you to fly off in a fury with Madeline. I don't know you as well as you know me, I suppose. Forgive me?”

She smoothed the lapels of his coat and lifted her face for his kiss. Then she twined her arms about his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.

“What can have happened?” she said. “I so wanted them both to be happy, Edmund. What could have happened to make her take such a drastic step? She has left him. What did he do to her to make her leave? There is so much love in James. It sustained me for years. But somehow he has driven her away.”

“If you can manage without me for a few days,” he said, “I will go up to London and see what I can find out.
Perhaps it is just a foolish quarrel after all that can be settled with some cool mediation. Though perhaps those few days will have to be extended if I need to go to Yorkshire.”

“No, I cannot manage without you,” she said. “And I can't stand here wasting time in your arms, Edmund, comforting as they are. There is a great deal of work to do if we two and the children are to be ready to leave for town within the next day or two. Have you sent word to town to have the house opened up?”

“No,” he said. “But if you will release my neck, Alex, I can get a messenger on his way before morning is out. Are you sure you are up to the journey?”

“You know I have never been able to sit doing nothing when I am increasing,” she said. “And I am certainly not going to remain here without you. The very idea!”

He kissed her on the lips and looked deeply into her eyes before turning to leave the room. “Try not to worry
too much,” he said. “I have a feeling those two belong together. They are just too stubborn and hotheaded to make an easy transition from the single state into marriage.
They will, given time, and be as happy as you and I.”

She touched his cheek. “I couldn't wish better for them,” she said. “Go now.”

J
AMES WAS STANDING IN THE STABLEYARD OF the Duke of Peterleigh's manor, one booted foot propped on a mounting block, an arm draped over his raised knee. He was looking at Carl Beasley, who was tapping a riding whip against his boot and seemed eager to be on his way. A couple of grooms were busy in the stalls behind them, but they were well out of earshot to all but raised voices.

“I always thought I was the one who had ended our friendship,” James said, “by punching out your lights after you had let Dora be sent away. I did not see your actions at the time as hostile, merely misguided. I often felt sorry afterward for taking out my frustration on you. But they were hostile, weren't they? You took me for a fool and were clearly right in your judgment. I was a fool.”

Carl shrugged. “It was all a long time ago,” he said. “We were both much younger, Beckworth, and a great deal less wise.”

“Why did you never tell me that it was Peterleigh's child?” James asked. “Why did you let me believe it was mine?”

“I suppose Dora told you,” Carl said. “I might have known she would. It might have been yours, though. You
were laying her out there in the heather. You and Peterleigh both. But it was nothing to feel very guilty over, was it? Dora and I were never of great importance. We were only Peterleigh's wards.”

“There was never any question of my looking down on either of you,” James said. “You and I were friends. And I cared for Dora. You knew that. You knew I would have married her without any hesitation at all.”

“It was all very well to rage and tear your hair and break my nose when there was nothing you could do about the situation,” Carl said. “I doubt you would have married her if there had been a real chance. Like Peterleigh, you would have looked for a way out. And do you think your dear papa would have permitted you to marry my sister?”

“Did he know?” James frowned. “Did my father know that it was Peterleigh's?”

“Never.” Carl laughed. “If Dora were only a little better endowed with brains,” he said, “I would say that she laid an excellent trap for you, Beckworth. In reality, of course, it all happened by chance. But it was certainly better to let everyone believe that you were the culprit. You were easy to excuse—young and sowing your wild oats and all that.
On the other hand, many people would have condemned Peterleigh. He was almost forty years old and Dora's guardian. And it might well have been you, after all.”

“So,” James said, “you and Peterleigh between you let my father believe an untruth. You caused a rift between us that never healed and let me live through agonies of guilt and remorse for years.”

“You deserved it all,” Carl said. “You ruined my sister as effectively as Peterleigh did.”

James nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I did. I was much to blame. But I fancied myself in love, and I would have taken
the consequences. I never did realize that you hated me so much, Carl, and resented my position as son with a living father. I never knew you felt so inferior. But you could not take out your resentment on Peterleigh, could you? You were dependent on him. So I was the scapegoat of your need to avenge yourself on the world. The blame was put on me. But of course Dora could not be allowed to marry me, could she, because I was brother to the duke's prospective bride. The child would have been his son and his nephew both. Besides, it is hardly likely my father would have countenanced that match if he had known the truth. Peterleigh was one of the few men he thought worthy of his regard. Ironic, wouldn't you agree?”

“Forget it,” Carl said. “When all is said and done, no great harm has been done. Dora is reasonably contented and the child is well looked after by Peterleigh. And you have done quite well for yourself.” He turned and strode from the stableyard in the direction of the house.

But James went after him. He caught him by the shoulder and swung him around so that his back was to the trunk of a giant oak. He took him firmly by the lapels of his coat.

“Has no great harm been done?” he asked. “Is a ten-year anguish no harm? And what about your vow all those years ago to revenge yourself on me for the beating I gave you? Has that been forgotten too?”

“I don't like your hands on me, Beckworth,” Carl said icily. “And what nonsense are you talking now?”

“I want to know about your friendship with my wife,” James said.

Carl smiled.“I suggest you ask her,” he said. “I don't want to tell tales, Beckworth, and get the lady into trouble.”

“Oh, no.” James's eyes narrowed dangerously. “I was not asking you about the nature of the friendship. I was not asking you to smear my wife's name. And if you don't want your nose broken again, you had better think twice about volunteering any lies on the subject. I am asking what you have told her.”

“Many things,” Carl said. “We have met many times, Beckworth. To our mutual satisfaction, I might add.”

James's hands tightened on his lapels.

“What did you tell her about Dora?” he said. “And about the boy?”

Carl Beasley smiled again. “I did not need to say much,” he said. “She saw you alone with Dora, you know, and she heard the interchange between you and Ben and Adam. I merely comforted her.”

James dropped his hands and watched as Carl straightened his coat. “You told her that Dora and I were lovers?” he said. “And you let her believe that the boy is mine?”

Carl brushed at his sleeves with careless hands. “I was amazed that you had not already told her yourself, Beckworth,” he said. “Anyone would think you still had something to hide.”

“Just one more thing,” James said, taking a menacing half-step forward. “Did you lead Madeline to believe that there is still something between Dora and me?”

“She saw for herself,” Carl said. “I did not have to say a word.”

“But you did, didn't you?” James's eyes narrowed again so that for the first time Carl looked wary. “In the way you have always had, of seeming to say only what the other can be supposed to know already. And always in a manner to make the other suppose you to be a concerned friend. It was against me you felt resentment, Beasley. It
was me you wanted to hurt. Why must my wife be made to suffer too?”

“Just because she
is
your wife,” Carl said, his eyes mocking.

“The last time we had an encounter like this,” James said, his voice quiet and level, “I punished you. In a young man's way, with violence. I have learned that unnecessary violence settles nothing. I will only say this, Beasley. You will stay away from my wife in future. You will neither speak to her nor come near her. If you do, I will find a way of dealing with you. Do I make myself clear?”

Carl smiled. “And how is the lady to be kept away from me?” he said. “Are you going to lock her up, Beckworth?
You do not seem to have done a great job of making her happy so far in your marriage, do you?”

“Fortunately,” James said, “neither my wife's happiness nor mine nor the state of our marriage is any concern whatsoever of yours, Beasley. Good day to you.” He turned and strode back into the stableyard to retrieve his horse.

But almost a month passed before he finally went after her. His instinct at first had been to go at once, to find out whether she had gone by stage or by the mail, and to pursue her and bring her back home.

But bring her back for what reason? To force her to continue being his wife? To force her to manage his household and entertain his guests, to sit beside him at meals and with him in the drawing room during the evenings? To force her to share his bed at night and cater to his pleasure? To bear his children—if they ever could have children?

To know himself hated? To know that everything she did in his home was done because he was insisting upon
her obedience? To know that at any time when he had been from home he might arrive back to find her gone and have to go after her all over again?

Was that what he wanted? Madeline at all costs?

It had happened as he had always known it would happen. He had loved her and married her and destroyed her. And now there seemed to be nothing he could do to reverse the process.

Perhaps if he had known a long time ago what he knew now, things might have been different. He would not have spent years consumed with guilt and feeling that other people had destroyed any chance he had at pride and self-esteem. He would not have lost all faith in life and other people. And he would have felt free to love and be happy.
Free to love Madeline, whom he had fought for years not to love.

Perhaps he could have offered her himself, not just his body on a hillside at Amberley and his hand and his name at an altar a week later.

Perhaps he could have made her happy and himself happy.

Perhaps. But it was pointless to think in terms of what might have been. The fact was that he had made a mess of his marriage and made his wife so unhappy that she had taken the almost unheard of course of leaving him.

He could not go after her and bring her back. If he loved her as much as he professed to do, then he must let her go, he must let her find whatever happiness she could without him.

He showed his love for her for a month by staying at Dunstable Hall, going about his daily business as if nothing had happened. He continued the improvements for both his tenants and his laborers that he had begun
months before. He continued to keep a close eye on the activities of his bailiff and on the books. He visited his neighbors and smiled and informed them all that his wife had gone to London to visit her family and that yes, he was missing her greatly.

And at home he noticed with a pang of regret that the servants were beginning to revert to their old ways.
The pretty curls and dimples that had begun to appear on the younger maids began to disappear again as Mrs.
Cockings once more took charge of the running of the household.

He missed Madeline with an emptiness that was a pain.
But unlike most pains, it did not lessen as time went on but grew worse and worse until he had to force himself to get out of bed in the morning and force himself to carry on with the day's activities and then force himself to climb back into the empty bed again at night.

He had heard nothing from her and almost nothing about her. Only one letter, hastily penned, from Alex to say that they were on their way to London, having just heard that Madeline had arrived there. There was some comfort in the letter. At least he knew she was safe.

But safe with her family. Where she belonged and where she would stay for the rest of her life. Away from him, where she was not safe and not happy.

There was never a letter from her, though his days began to revolve around the daily arrival of the post.

He finally went to London himself. He rationalized his decision. He must see her. If they were to live apart, then there were arrangements to be made. He would have to see her properly settled with a comfortable allowance.
And he must at least tell her the truth about Dora and Jonathan. Somehow—would it be possible?—he must
apologize for what had happened on her last night at home.

He did not know if he had a good reason for going. But by the time he went, he did not need a good reason. He went because he had to go. He had no choice in the matter.

T
HE DOWAGER
Lady Amberley leaned back on the sofa, rested her head against the back of it, and closed her eyes.
She sighed.

“I really should not be here,” she said. “I should have left with your other guests. I could become the
on-dit
of the week, Cedric. Alone in a gentleman's rooms at eleven o'clock at night.”

“Relax for a while,” he said. “You have been looking tired lately.”

“Mm,” she said. “I must admit it is lovely to be quiet here with just you. You are a peaceful companion.”

He sat down beside her and took her hand. “I think perhaps you have become too involved in Madeline's problems,” he said. “You worry too much, Louisa.”

“She is so desperately unhappy,” she said. “No one who did not know her would realize it, of course. She is as involved with the entertainments of the Season as she ever was and has just as large a court as ever, too. And she is in good looks, though somewhat thinner than usual. I cannot think what will happen to her, Cedric. A broken marriage! That has always been something that happened to other people. Never within my own family.”

“She is seven-and-twenty,” he said gently. “Cruel as it might sound, my dear, it is her problem. She must solve it.
With your love and support, of course. But you must not take her burdens on your own shoulders.”

“To be fair,” she said, turning her head on the cushion and smiling at him, “that is what she has told me more than once. But we are Raines. We stick close together.
There is Edmund planning to leave for Yorkshire as soon as he can persuade Alexandra that she would be putting her new child at risk if she goes too. And Dominic planning to take Madeline into Wiltshire and set up the dower house for her. And Madeline fighting us all and enjoying the Season quite furiously. Oh, dear.”