The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (25 page)

“Bah!” Mrs. Bowman scoffed. “You English.
Cold as fish and just as miserly.” The modiste snatched the pages
from Jane’s hand and gave her an imperious glare. “Come back when
you tire of looking like a dumpling.” She turned on her heel and
stalked away, her assistants following like two obsequious
shadows.

Nonplussed, Jane looked at Victoria, who
shrugged apologetically. “Well,” the spectacled young woman said
briskly. “I don’t know about you, but the mention of dumplings has
stirred my appetite. Shall we adjourn for luncheon?”

Grinning at her friend’s good humor, Victoria
agreed and looped her arm through Jane’s. As they stood outside the
shop waiting for the Berne carriage to pull up, Victoria’s neck
prickled. It was the oddest sensation, almost as though someone was
staring at her without her knowing. She glanced around at the
crowded walkways along Bond Street, but did not see anything
unusual. It was most peculiar. She had experienced the feeling on
two other occasions recently, but had not been able to pin down its
source. Turning her head to scan the crowds again, she looked from
left to right, only to freeze as she spotted a familiar face.

Mary Thorpe, sister of the Earl of Dunston,
walked out of a neighboring shop and ambled toward them, her petite
frame and cinnamon-colored hair instantly recognizable among the
crowd of blond misses who accompanied her. While Victoria was not
especially close with Mary, they were the same age, and their
brothers were good friends. She got on rather well with the girl,
who had always been perfectly amiable. Victoria had even considered
her a possible match for Harrison, if he would only turn his
attention to finding a wife.

Preparing to greet the girl, whom she had not
seen in weeks, Victoria stood a bit straighter and pivoted in the
group’s direction. Several of the blonds met her eyes, instantly
stiffened, then whispered to one another. Mary’s eyes remained
focused straight ahead, her mouth flat, as the group neared. Then,
just before they would have passed Victoria and Jane, the girls
halted, crossed to the opposite side of Bond Street, and continued
north for a short distance before crossing the street again to
resume their original course.

Her stomach cramped. She felt the sickness of
embarrassment wash over her, prickling heat settling in her cheeks.
What Mary and her friends had just done was as close to the cut
direct as one could get without an outright confrontation. Such
deliberate avoidance—as though merely breathing the same air as
Victoria would somehow taint them—was a clear signal that the
scandal raged on, a poison that could not be drained.

“I saw a pigeon do that once,” Jane’s dry
voice interjected. “Turns out the poor thing had bashed its head
and knocked itself silly only moments before. It’s to be expected,
I suppose, when one’s brain is not quite up to snuff.”

Victoria struggled for a smile, swallowing
hard. Jane squeezed her arm reassuringly. It was then that it
struck her how risky their association was for Jane’s reputation.
If their plan failed, being seen with the object of such notoriety
could taint the girl and permanently damage her chances at a
match.

“Jane, I …” Victoria began, but was
interrupted when the coach emerged onto the street from the alley
and pulled up in front of them.

“Ah, finally!” Jane sighed, waiting for the
footman to open the door. She climbed inside, quickly scooting to
make room for Victoria. As Victoria settled onto the seat, Jane
reached over and patted her hand. “On our next outing, I shall take
you shopping for books. There is this place on Piccadilly you will
love. Well, I believe you will, but then I am hardly
impartial—”

“Jane,” Victoria interrupted, hating this
moment. “I am so grateful to have your friendship, but …”
Tears—blasted, unruly tears—sprang into her eyes, choked off her
well-intentioned words. She had so few true friends. Most of her
female acquaintances were more like Mary Thorpe, polite and
pleasant but superficial. In the past two weeks, Jane had become
more dear to her than all of them combined, her steady nature and
self-effacing humor a balm to Victoria’s spirit. While Lucien and
Victoria had settled into a kind of cautious cordiality, they had
not resumed their previous friendship, nor had he made any
overtures of the amorous variety. It was most disappointing—er,
refreshing.
Yes,
refreshing
to be all but ignored by
one’s husband.

She took a bracing breath and continued.
“Until it happened to me, I never thought much about the people
involved in scandals. I felt sorry for them, I suppose. That they
had erred so badly. But this is … it is painful, Jane.” She glanced
up from her gloved hands to meet Jane’s warm brown eyes. “To be
constantly reminded of your humiliation. To be scorned by everyone
around you. I don’t think I could bear it—”

“Nonsense,” Jane replied firmly. “If I can
bear Mrs. Bowman’s poking and prodding with her mighty pins, you
can endure this. It will get better, you’ll see. Lady Wallingham
has said it, and therefore it is so.”

This brought a brief smile to Victoria’s
face. “I was going to say I don’t think I could bear it if you
suffered in any way because of me. Already this scandal has
burdened my brother, the duke, dreadfully.”

Jane went oddly quiet, her expression
shuttered. “You still have not heard from him?”

Victoria shook her head. “Lucien has
forbidden me to contact him, but there is nothing preventing
Harrison from writing or visiting me.”

“Perhaps Lord Atherbourne has warned him
away.”

“That may be so. But my brother is hardly one
to concede to such a demand. No, after what happened at the
theater, I fear Harrison is angry with me. Disappointed, certainly.
Concerned about being further linked to such a scandal.” She
watched Jane’s lips pucker in staunch disapproval. “It is no small
matter, Jane. You could easily be tainted, as well. Perhaps we
should not be seen together until matters are more … settled.”

One dark brow rose above the rim of her round
spectacles. “You are presuming my
many
suitors will abandon
me, and I will be left to wallow in isolation on the fringes of
London’s ballrooms. Unheralded. Unnoticed. Un-danced-with. Oh, the
horror.”

“Jane …” she whispered, finally chuckling and
shaking her head.

“Besides,” Jane said, her tone migrating from
sarcasm to determination. “I will not allow a gaggle of
narrow-minded know-nothings to dictate with whom I may associate.
Really. As though they are so perfect. Adorra Spencer has teeth
larger than my slippers. And don’t get me started on Lady Phillipa
Martin-Mace.” Jane huffed in disgust at two of the four blonds who
had crossed Bond Street to avoid Victoria. “Saw her kick a dog
once. Poor thing. I pity the man who marries her. He’ll be black
and blue, mark my words.”

The carriage rocked to a stop outside the
Berne residence. Before the footman opened the door, Victoria took
Jane’s small hand in her own and squeezed affectionately. “I don’t
know what I have done to deserve such a dear friend, but I am ever
so grateful,” she said quietly. “If you should decide it prudent to
keep your distance, I will think no less of you.”

“Well, I would,” Jane retorted. “Come now,
let’s have luncheon. I find a good meal does much to calm one’s
nerves.”

They stepped out of the carriage onto the
walkway in front of the Berne townhouse, and again, Victoria felt
that strange tingle along the back of her neck. It was a small,
localized shiver at the top of her spine, the sensation of hairs
rising away from her skin. Immediately, she spun around in a
circle, her eyes searching the quiet street.

There! It was a man, dark-haired, wearing a
greatcoat and a tall hat pulled low over his brow. The brim made it
difficult to see his face, but his clothes looked somewhat worn and
rumpled. Something about his demeanor, his shuffling stride,
suggested he did not belong on this street, among these houses. He
stared at her a moment, then looked away, strolling casually in the
opposite direction to disappear down a set of stairs into the area
below one of the houses.

Must be a servant or a deliveryman.
She shook her head, wondering if perhaps her imagination was
getting the better of her.

“Victoria, are you coming?” Jane called from
the doorway.

She plastered on a smile and ascended the
steps to link arms with her friend as they walked inside. “So,
let’s discuss this bookshop you would have me visit.”

*~*~*

Chapter Twenty

“
I have said it before, and I shall say it again:
Intelligent men are dangerous men. It is good there are so few of
them.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne
after meeting privately with the Prime Minister.

The runner slouched in the seat across the
desk from Harrison, his expression wary and haggard, his dark
clothes rumpled.

“Atherbourne is also preventing her receiving
my letters, then?” Harrison asked softly.

“Near as I can tell, your grace. The servants
don’t like it much, but what can they do?”

Harrison nodded, his thoughts churning. He
had known Atherbourne had
something
planned. All considered,
it was better than he had feared. According to the Bow Street
runner he paid to keep an eye on Victoria, his sister had not been
harmed since her marriage, aside from being commanded to keep her
distance from Harrison. After he’d spotted her at the theater, he
had asked the runner to make further inquiries, thinking perhaps
her refusal to see him or answer his letters stemmed from
Atherbourne’s interference. He’d been right.

The runner shifted and cleared his throat.
Harrison raised a brow. “Eager to depart, Drayton?”

Pinned under Harrison’s gaze, the other man
squirmed. “N-no, sir. Er—your grace. It’s just that it’s been three
days since I’ve seen a bed—”

“Are you saying you’d prefer I hire someone
else for this task?”

That perked the scruffy creature up directly.
“Not at all. I’ll do the job, for certain, your grace.”

Harrison stared at the man wordlessly for a
full minute. He had always found silence useful. Others often
attempted to fill it, which tended to benefit him. “Excellent. I
shall expect another report in three days’ time.” With that,
Harrison dismissed the man from his mind. Drayton, accustomed by
now to the duke’s manner, departed with a brief bow. Harrison heard
the door click as he turned his attention to the most recent
figures from Blackmore Hall’s household accounts. It appeared the
cook Victoria had hired last fall was rather profligate with the
spices. He’d have to put a stop to that.

Victoria.

His hand tightened on the paper, causing the
numbers to wrinkle and fold in on themselves. She had always been a
romantic sort, soft as thistledown beneath a composed surface. Her
practical decision to marry Stickley had misled him into forgetting
that fact. But somehow Atherbourne had seen it, exploited it.
Damn him to hell.

Harrison spent most of his time lately trying
to keep Colin from complete destruction, and the rest dealing with
the vast assortment of problems and decisions related to running
the Blackmore properties. Victoria had managed the households, and
when she married, those tasks fell to him. He did not have time for
a brother-in-law with a grudge and a devious agenda.

Glaring at the crumpled paper in his fist, he
forced his fingers to relax, then smoothed the page with his palm.
This was precisely the reaction the blackguard wanted, he thought.
He refused to give Atherbourne the satisfaction of missing her, of
resenting the severed connection to his sister. Besides, if he
thought too much about her absence, a peculiar ache settled in his
chest. It was most unpleasant.

No, rather than dwelling on these things, he
would keep a watchful eye on her and await his opportunity to set
things right. At some point, Atherbourne would assume he had
triumphed, assume Victoria would allow herself to be cut off from
her family permanently.

A subtle grin tugged at the corner of
Harrison’s mouth.

Such assumptions were foolish, indeed.

*~*~*

Dappled sunlight wove a dazzling spell as
Victoria strolled on her husband’s arm. Hyde Park was not as lovely
as the lands around Blackmore Hall, but it had its own kind of
beauty—green, open, and orderly amidst the stone, brick, and grime
of London. She suspected she would always prefer the country, but
walking in the park was a treat, especially on a rare sunny
day.

It would be a shame to ruin such a peaceful
interlude, but something must be done. In the weeks since the
confrontation at the theater, Lucien had withdrawn from her,
behaving for all the world as if she were a houseguest—he was
polite, even gentlemanly. Most unsettling.

Then there were the nightmares. While he was
careful not to touch her, he continued to sleep beside her. Three
times now, she had awakened to find him frozen inside a dark hell.
Nothing she did seemed to help, and he ignored her attempts to
soothe him, often disappearing from their bed well before dawn. She
knew precious little about the secrets that weighed on Lucien’s
mind, and the last thing she wanted to do was cause him pain, but
patiently waiting for him to broach the subject had proved
fruitless.

Why, just yesterday he had returned from
riding with Lord Tannenbrook, robust and flushed, smelling of brisk
morning air as he passed her in the hall outside her studio.

“It is early to be so filled with vigor, my
lord husband,” she had teased, wanting to see the grin that was so
much a part of him.

For the first time in too long, he obliged,
his eyes twinkling as they dropped to her bodice. “Remarkable what
a little fresh air can do for a man.”