by Joyce Alec
Arthur stiffened, pushing down the urge to plant the gentleman a facer in order to bring him to his senses. “Miss Smythe is a dear friend of my sister, Lady Glenister,” he said sharply. “I have promised to ensure that Miss Smythe is…” He hesitated, not quite sure how to explain what he had promised to Charlotte.
“You have promised to protect her from cads and rogues and the like,” Lord Davenport suggested lazily. “I can assure you that I am not at all a gentleman of that ilk.”
Shaking his head, Arthur pressed his lips together tightly for a moment in an attempt to force his composure to remain steady. “You did not treat her fairly at the ball this evening, Lord Davenport.”
“Oh, you are referring to Lady Josephine,” Lord Davenport laughed, waving a hand as though such a thing did not matter in the least. “Well, what can Miss Smythe expect? I know that I was promised to her for the supper dance, but when someone such as Lady Josephine seeks you out and begs you to take her to the floor since no one else has claimed her, what can one do?”
“Refuse,” Arthur stated unequivocally. “You thank her, but state that you are already promised to another. Miss Smythe was left quite at a loss as to what to do and you brought her a good deal of embarrassment due to your lack of consideration.”
Lord Davenport assumed an expression of mock dismay. “Oh, no, however shall I make it up to her?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “You need not fear for Miss Smythe, Wickton. I shall send her some flowers and a beautifully written note come the morrow. I shall beg for her forgiveness on bended knee and I have no doubt that she will give it to me without hesitation. For, after all, what other gentleman has paid her any sort of attention? She will not turn from me over a simple thing such as this. Besides which,” he shrugged, as though he did not care for Miss Smythe’s feelings in any way, “once we are wed, she will have to become used to the fact that I am not always going to be in her company. In fact, I may often choose others over her company, given that I am a gentleman who enjoys the conversation of others—and she is a quiet little mouse who much prefers to remain in the shadows.” His shoulders dropped, an arrogant grin spreading across his face. “You see, my intentions are quite genuine, Lord Wickton.”
“I would hardly call them that,” Arthur replied, a dark cloud settling over him as he realized just how little Lord Davenport cared for Miss Smythe. Anger burned in his chest, forcing his harsh words from his mouth. “Tell me precisely why you are attempting to court Miss Smythe, if you intend to treat her so disparagingly.”
Lord Davenport sighed dramatically and shook his head. “Can you truly not see, Wickton? Surely you must know that a gentleman such as I must have a wife to continue the family line—as you must do also. However, I am not inclined towards having a demanding, frustrating creature by my side. I must have a quiet, biddable wife who will make no demands of me. I must have her willing to accept her life, such as it will be, and simply look the other way at my own personal… choices. Besides, I believe that her father is eager for her to wed, as I have heard that her dowry is now quite sizable.”
Ice ran through Arthur’s veins. “You mean to say that you intend to be both married and a rake at the very same time,” he stated coldly. “You have no intention of keeping faith with your wife.”
“As though you would do such a thing!” Lord Davenport laughed, shaking his head and putting one hand on Arthur’s shoulder in mirth. “What gentlemen do you know who have not taken a mistress?”
Arthur shook him off, his expression one of utter fury. “I know a good many,” he replied, pointing one finger into Lord Davenport’s chest. “I know those who love and care for their wives as they do for themselves.” The thought of Charlotte and Lord Glenister appeared in his mind, reminding him of the love they shared. “You shall not have your way with Miss Smythe.”
Lord Davenport considered this for a few moments, his face now devoid of mirth. Instead, his grey eyes grew even more clouded, his lips tugging into a thin, tight line.
“I hardly think that you will prevent me from doing such a thing, Lord Wickton,” he said eventually. “You will be resigning Miss Smythe to a life of spinsterhood.”
“I should marry her myself before you have the opportunity to take her as your bride,” Arthur hissed, suddenly filled with a deep sense of determination. “You shall not toy with her in such a way. She deserves better than you.”
“I will not have you getting in my way, Lord Wickton,” Lord Davenport replied, his voice low with an unspoken threat. “I have put almost a year into pursuing Miss Smythe.” Seeing Arthur about to scoff, he held up one hand to prevent him from doing so. “I have written to her each month she has been gone from London,” he stated, his eyes holding no hint of untruth. “I have been calling upon her from the moment she returned. I have not yet made my intentions clear to her or her father, but I shall do so very soon. You will not prevent it, Wickton.”
Arthur allowed himself a dark smile, knowing full well that even if he were to upset Miss Smythe terribly by informing her of the truth of Lord Davenport, he would do so in order to save her from her fate.
“You will not,” Lord Davenport said again, leaning closer towards Arthur. “I shall make sure of it.”
“You are a snake,” Arthur declared bluntly, ignoring the spark of anger in Lord Davenport’s eyes. “You have appeared to be genteel, kind and welcoming—everything a gentleman should be—but underneath it all, you are arrogant and utterly, utterly selfish. You have deceived me long enough. I will not allow it to continue, Davenport. Miss Smythe will know the truth come the morrow.”
So saying, he turned about and walked away from Lord Davenport, his heart thumping wildly with restrained anger. It had been all he could do not to plant his fist into Lord Davenport’s face—although such a thing would have only brought him short relief instead of a permanent solution. No doubt that news of his assault would have passed around London in a matter of hours and he would have found it more difficult to speak the truth to Miss Smythe.
No one prevented him from leaving White’s, even though Arthur had half expected Lord Davenport to gather some of his friends and come hurtling after him, as though a physical threat would prevent him from speaking of what he knew. The door closed behind him and Arthur drew in a long, steadying breath, feeling the cold air push aside some of his anger.
His thoughts turned towards Miss Smythe. He had never expected to feel such frustration on her behalf and yet still could not remove the memory of her crumpled face from his mind as Lord Davenport had led Lady Josephine onto the floor.
I should have done more.
The shame that had continually pricked at him ever since last summer, when he had remained at his estate instead of returning to town, now bit down at him, hard. He had made a promise to his sister and had not fulfilled it. Mayhap if he had, then Miss Smythe might not find herself in such a dire situation as she did now.
It had been a foolish agreement in the first place, but Arthur had grown so tired of attempting to push his sister towards matrimony with any number of suitable gentleman that he had agreed to it without question. Charlotte had endured a ball that he had thrown and had behaved with decorum and grace throughout. He had angered her by adding to her dowry and then letting certain gentlemen know of his actions, but she had managed to forgive him in the end. The ball had not been the great success he had hoped it, for Charlotte had not found any gentleman to court her, but, thereafter, had stumbled upon Lord Glenister and had found a happy marriage with him.
Unfortunately, given that his side of the bargain had been to remain utterly silent in the face of Charlotte’s lack of suitors, Arthur had been doomed to fail from the start. However, he had managed to keep his promise right up until a few moments before his sister had introduced Lord Glenister as her betrothed, and so, Arthur had hoped he would be released from the consequences that should have followed. Charlotte had been kind enough to agree, stating that her demand that he was to court a young lady of
her choosing was not to be carried out. However, in its place she had made him promise that he would watch out for Miss Smythe and do his utmost to bring her out from the shadows so that she would be seen as a charming young lady of the ton instead of a wallflower.
Except, he had not done so. He had remained at home instead of returning to London and only came again this year so that he might begin to consider his own future. That was a failing on his part, he knew. But he had to hope that it was not too late for him to do such a thing now.
Sighing to himself, Arthur hailed a hackney and waited for it to approach. He would have to write to Miss Smythe at once, so that the note could be delivered almost at sunup. He would ask to speak to her, for there was too much to be said in a letter. What would she say when he told her the truth of Lord Davenport? Would she cry and weep in desperation? Would there be any light in her eyes if he stated that he would marry her himself if it was required of him?
Climbing into the hackney, Arthur considered this for a moment. There came no instant recoil within him at the thought of proposing to Miss Smythe. In fact, he almost welcomed it, thinking that it might do him good to marry someone such as she. He knew from their previous acquaintance that she made good conversation and was well able to make him laugh upon occasion. They had not resumed such an acquaintance thus far, but he had only just returned to town and had not yet had the opportunity to do so.
And you have been rather stiff whenever you have been in her company, a small voice said in his mind. He wanted to dismiss that thought at once, wanted to throw it aside and pretend that it was not so, but the truth was that he was quite certain he had been behaving in such a fashion. Not that he had any explanation for his behavior. Miss Smythe was just as she had been last Season, save for the fact that she had now given her attentions to Lord Davenport. There was no reason for him to act in such an awkward fashion.
Shaking his head to himself, Arthur exhaled heavily and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he rested his head in his hands. This had certainly been an eventful start to the summer Season and he was certain it would not be the quiet few months he had anticipated.
Something pinged over his head, making Arthur jerk in surprise. He stared about him, the gloom of the early hours of the morning and the smog that surrounded the London streets making it difficult to see what had occurred. His mind was blank, his ears straining to hear anything else that might soon come his way.
The hackney came to a sudden stop, the horses whinnying uncomfortably. The streets were quiet, with barely any other sound coming from all around them.
“I say,” Arthur said loudly, refusing to allow his clamoring heart to feel anything other than determination. “Is something the matter? We are still a good distance away from where I directed you.”
The hackney driver said nothing. There came no sound from him, no murmur of any sort.
And then, something slid forward, although Arthur could not make out what it was. A thump made him start in surprise and he had no other choice but to get out of the hackney in order to ascertain what the noise could be.
His eyes soon made out the sight of the hackney driver lying crumpled on the road. He had fallen to the street without making a sound, his eyes wide and staring as they looked up at Arthur in the gloom.
Arthur’s breath caught, one hand pressed against his chest as he stared at the dead man. It was apparent that all life was gone from him. There was nothing but death in his stare, the crumpled form of his body not moving an inch.
Someone had shot him. Shot him dead.
Arthur went cold all over, his hands beginning to shake as he pulled his coat a little tighter about him. He had no idea what he was to do, for to leave the dead man lying on the ground seemed wrong, but at the same time, he had to consider his own safety. For the first time since seeing the dead man, Arthur wondered if his death had been deliberate or if, in fact, the poor fellow had simply been in the way of the true target… himself.
“Surely not,” he whispered, his hands clenching into tight fists. “Davenport would not have done something like this so quickly, not after only a few minutes!”
He had not thought much of Lord Davenport’s threats, believing them to be nothing but harsh words that were spoken much too freely. But now, as he took in the dead man lying on the road, Arthur felt the first twist of fear tie itself over his heart. Could it be possible? Could Lord Davenport be attempting to rid the earth of Arthur, so that he might pursue his own ends with Miss Smythe? It seemed much too great a punishment for what Arthur was attempting to do. Surely Lord Davenport was neither as cruel nor as determined as all that?
“Oi!”
The sound of another man shouting and hurried footsteps echoing towards him made Arthur start with fright. This was not a wise place to be found. He might easily find himself in trouble should he remain, even though he had not had a single thing to do with this death. Filled with shame, Arthur turned on his heel and began to run, hurrying away from the hackney and the dead driver that lay on the ground, lying dead in Arthur’s place.
4
When Emily awoke the following morning, it was with such a heaviness in her soul that she did not quite know if she could rise from her bed.
Her maid was, as usual, attempting to be cheerful and encouraging, just as she had always done since Emily had first been given a lady’s maid. It did not help. Even as Emily sat at the dining table to break her fast, alone as usual, she felt so morose and downhearted that it was almost impossible to lift her hand to her mouth.
Her limbs were wooden, her eyes downcast as Emily sipped her tea, not inclined to eat a single morsel. She had not thought that she could ever feel such sadness over a gentleman but, then again, she had never been offered the chance to think of a future as a wife and titled lady. Lord Davenport had been paying her such close attentions that she had begun to consider what he one day might say to her. She had never truly considered matrimony until recently, given that as a wallflower, she had not been seen as a viable prospect for anyone.
Sitting forward and carefully replacing her teacup, Emily sighed heavily and put her head in her hands, her elbows resting on the table. She was not in love with Lord Davenport, although she had enjoyed his attentions and had allowed herself to become fond of him. It was more that, when she was in his company, he had made her feel as though she were someone of worth, someone worth his time. She had experienced things she had never done before. A gentleman seeking out her hand so that he might write his name on her dance card. Someone coming to call upon her, sending her a bunch of flowers the day after a ball. There had been walks in the park, carriage rides and plenty of conversation over cups of tea and honey cakes. For the first time in her existence, Emily had begun to feel valued. And then, last evening, Lord Davenport had thrown all that aside for the sake of one long look from Lady Josephine.
Lady Josephine was more than Emily could ever be. She was titled and wealthy, with wonderful connections within society that Emily could never even dream of boasting. There was no need for her to shine with outward beauty, for all of the other things that she had to offer were more than enough of an enticement for any particular gentleman. At one time, Emily had thought Lord Davenport less inclined towards such things, believing him to care for a genuine friendship between a gentleman and a lady instead of simply improving one’s appearance within the ton by the title of one’s husband or wife. Apparently, she had been wrong about such a thing. She had not known the true Lord Davenport at all.
“I did not love him,” she whispered aloud, tears burning in her eyes as she attempted to blink them back furiously. “I never once felt anything such as that.”
It was not that Lord Davenport had broken her heart, she realized, since she had never once even thought that she loved him, but that he had brought her shame and mortification in front of the rest of the beau monde—although, of course, none of them had even noticed her leaving the ball. Instead of showing the ton that he truly did care
for Emily, instead of proving that he preferred friendship over title and wealth, Lord Davenport had done precisely the opposite by rejecting her and turning to Lady Josephine. In that moment, Lady Josephine had proven herself to be the victor. She had garnered Lord Davenport’s attentions and had left Emily to stand alone.
Lord Wickton saw you.
Emily closed her eyes tightly, feeling tears drip down on to her cheeks. She did not bother to wipe them away, allowing them to linger as though this would help her pain.
Lord Wickton was a gentleman she had always admired, but she had learned very quickly that he was not a gentleman eager to pursue courtship or matrimony. He appeared to be content in his life, although he had been greatly concerned over his sister’s lack of interest in suitors for herself. Now that Charlotte’s situation was resolved, Emily had wondered if Lord Wickton would consider his own future, but his absence from the rest of the Season last summer had proven to her that she was not someone he considered. And so, despite her affection for him, Emily was determined to set him from her heart and Lord Davenport had helped in that regard. Except, when she had needed someone to come to stand beside her, to come to her aid, it had not been Lord Davenport by her side, but Lord Wickton. Another gentleman who had never seen her as anything more than a quiet wallflower.
“My lady?”
A little startled, Emily looked up, wiping her eyes quickly with the back of her hand.