Adrian had entered the country three days previously, furtively, much as he had left it nearly eight years before. He had thought to stop in London but his mother, the one person who would have been happy to see him, had died last winter. He had discovered the tragic news only recently, and her loss was still a raw ache. He had tried to locate James Endicott, but James had married and moved to Scotland.
The earl couldn’t explain why he had chosen Sutherfield to make his first appearance among the elite, except Simon and he had been close once and he hoped for a measure of understanding from someone he had called friend. Not that they had socialized much in the years preceding Adrian’s flight from the country. Simon, though a bit of a rogue himself, had not approved of his friend’s more daring exploits, so the two men had drifted apart.
Adrian pulled in a deep breath and exhaled heavily through his mouth. He didn’t know if Simon was in residence it being the middle of the Season. But he supposed he might as well plunge in and see what happened. Straightening his shoulders, he kicked his horse and trotted down the incline across a grassy field toward the drive leading to the house.
A groom greeted him as he reached the front walk.
“How may I help you, sir?”
The earl dismounted and tossed his reins at the man. “I’m Adrian St. John, Earl of Wickham. I was hoping to see Lord Sutherfield or rather his son, Simon.”
The servant gaped at him. “I…uh, that is to say, the young master is now the Marquess of Sutherfield, my lord. His father died several years ago.” He hesitated. “Are you certain you wish to see his lordship?”
The question was impertinent, and Adrian’s nostrils flared in irritation. “Positive. Is he in residence?”
“Yes, my lord, he is.”
“Good. See to my horse.”
Already Adrian felt as though he had made a mistake in coming. If the groom’s reaction to his visit was an indication then the scandal had not completely subsided. He hated to put Simon in the awkward position of having to turn him away. Now more uncertain than ever he continued up the walk.
At the moment he reached for the brass knocker, the front door flew open and the lord of the manor appeared on the step.
“Simon!”
Smiling, Adrian thrust out his right hand but his greeting went unanswered. Simon Fitzgerald, Marquess of Sutherfield, reared back with a white-knuckled fist and punched his old friend square in the mouth.
The earl fell backwards, landing face up on the cobbled walk. Running his tongue gingerly over a lip that immediately began to throb, he recognized the salty taste of blood. His vision had dimmed, but through the haze he could see the marquess, tall and intimidating, looming over him.
“Why did you do that?”
“Stand up, you bloody bastard, so I can do it again!”
Adrian came up on his elbow but remained where he lay, for the moment unsure whether or not he could rise. “I think I’ll stay right here until you explain yourself.”
“Me? Explain myself? Stand up, I say. I’ve waited eight long years to get my hands around your cowardly throat. You’re not going to deny me the pleasure of beating you senseless.”
The marquess continued to loom over Adrian, hands clenched aggressively. From his prone position the earl’s sight had begun to clear, and he watched the man with a wary eye.
“Simon, please, can’t we do this without making a scene?” a melodic female voice interrupted at that point. “Invite the gentleman in so you can settle your difficulties in private.”
Both men looked in the direction of the front entrance to a striking woman with auburn hair, noticeably in her last weeks of pregnancy. She spread her hands, indicating the people who had begun to gather in the yard.
“I’d as soon invite in the devil,” the marquess stated darkly. “Moreover, I’ll just crack his head in your drawing room, Cassandra. Certain you wish to risk the furniture?”
“Simon, please,” she said again.
Reluctant—but not irrational, Adrian noted with relief—the marquess acquiesced, silently swinging around and marching into the house. The woman must be Simon’s wife, the earl thought. That gave him some hope for, unless he had misjudged the situation, the beautiful lady was Simon’s one weakness and she seemed to be encouraging restraint.
Adrian came to his feet and dusted off his trousers, giving himself a second to think. He was undecided as to whether he should follow the marquess inside or leave. He felt something else as well. Offended. He hadn’t expected a warm greeting, but this overt hostility from a man he considered an old chum came as a shock.
The earl looked to the woman who still stood in the doorway, waiting for him. “Lady Sutherfield?” he asked.
She nodded solemnly and moved aside so he could enter.
He shrugged. Evidently the decision had been made for him. Frankly, though, he was curious. What had caused a rational man like Sutherfield to respond that way?
The earl stepped inside and waited for Lady Sutherfield to lead him to the appropriate room. He trailed behind her down a hall to a pair of richly carved doors that opened on the library. Inside, the marquess stood in front of a large desk, hands clasped behind his back. The expression in his black eyes was daunting.
“I’ll leave you gentlemen to your discussion,” Lady Sutherfield said, giving her husband a meaningful glance as she exited the room and closed the doors behind her.
The sound of the latch clicking into place preceded a tense silence.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t offer you a drink,” the marquess said at last.
Adrian was stumped by this final insult. “What is wrong with you, Simon? Were you friends with Findley? If you were, I’m sorry, but I swear the man gave me no choice. It was he or I. I chose me—hard to figure, but there it is.”
“Is that what you think this is about?” Simon bellowed. “I don’t give a damn about Findley. He can rot in Hell for all I care.” He paused then, eyeing the earl critically. “Are you saying you don’t know why I’m angry?”
“Enlighten me.”
“You ruined my sister. Does that bring back your memory?”
“Lydia?”
“Not Lydia, you bloody fool. It was Jillian.”
Adrian stared at the marquess, convinced the man had gone daft. “I don’t know any Jillian. You have another sister?”
“Oh, come now,” the marquess barked. He was knotting his hands again as though ready to reintroduce the fisticuffs. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t recall hauling my little sister to Dover in a hack on the night you fled the country?”
“That wasn’t your sister. It was…” Adrian trailed off all at once at a loss for words as memory assailed him.
Could it be? Was the sultry young maid with the dark eyes more than she had seemed? At the time he remembered thinking there was something suspicious about the circumstances surrounding her appearance in the carriage. But this—never would he have guessed this. Then he thought of something else. She had said her destination was the Sutherfield mansion in Berkeley Square.
“I tell you, Simon, there was a young girl in the carriage with me. She said she was a maid, was dressed like one, so I believed her—well, more or less. But I don’t recollect your having a younger sister Jillian.”
“You don’t remember a skinny little brown-eyed imp who followed you around like a puppy that summer you were here? My father called her Jilly. We all did. Still do, for that matter.”
Adrian’s gaze focused inward, again searching his memory. All at once he felt sick. “Oh, my God!” he whispered, his vision clearing. “Forgive me, Simon. I think I need to sit down.”
The marquess nodded his dark head toward a leather chair next to the desk. “You really didn’t know?”
“I swear. I would have returned to London and faced the consequences if I had.”
“So you’ve gone on, blithely unaware of the chaos you left behind you? Weren’t you in communication with anyone?”
&n
bsp; “Chaos?” the earl asked faintly. “What happened? My man of business wrote to me about, well…business. He passed along notes from my mother, but no one mentioned anything unpleasant.”
“How nice for you.” The sarcasm in Simon’s voice was unmistakable. “I wish I could say the same for Jillian. Sad too, for she was a fetching thing. She had her pick of the beaux that year and garnered I don’t know how many proposals. By summer’s end she had decided on Edgeworth.”
Adrian snorted his contempt.
“Yes, well, I didn’t much care for him, either. But Jilly was head over heels. Unfortunately, her little escapade was discovered and that ended everything. Edgeworth cried off and, with the vicious gossip that followed, my father had no choice but to send her back here to Sutherfield.”
“How did the story come out?”
“Now there’s an interesting question. We’re not certain. Jillian seemed to think James Endicott, the young man who drove your carriage, might have recognized her. The only other people who knew about that night were the two individuals with her—one our cousin Phillip—and she’s convinced neither would have exposed her.”
The earl shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Don’t you think if James had known who she was he would have told me? He’s a gentleman. James would never have ruined a young girl’s reputation only to repeat a little gossip.”
“Doesn’t signify,” the marquess said impatiently. “The harm is done, has been for a long time.” He gave Adrian a piercing look. “What concerns me now is what we’re going to do to mend the situation.”
Adrian felt the hair on the back of his neck lift. “I suppose,” he ventured, “you’ve already given it some thought.”
Simon chuckled, a humorless sound, as he moved across the room to a small sideboard where the brandy decanter resided. He poured two quick measures in crystal goblets, splashing the amber liquid over the rims in his haste. He turned back to the earl and handed him one.
“I think perhaps we need that drink now,” the marquess said, sitting behind the desk. “Negotiations always go better with spirits.” He leaned back in his chair, loosely gripping his glass in both hands as he rested it on his stomach. He had the look of one getting comfortable for however long it might take.
Adrian wondered if he appeared as dazed as he felt. The marquess’ next words confirmed his suspicion.
“Feeling a bit green around the edges, Wickham? You do want to negotiate, don’t you? I mean, we can’t undo what’s been done, but with a little creative thinking we can minimize the damage.”
The earl was cooked, not rare but through and through. It didn’t take a prophet to understand where this particular line of inquiry was headed. Creative thinking? Hardly. Simon was suggesting what was always suggested in circumstances like this. Although suggesting was an understatement. The pressure underlying the words, even though the discussion had turned less hostile, was unmistakable. Adrian felt just belligerent enough to pretend ignorance. Make the man say it, he thought.
“What did you have in mind, Simon?”
The marquess took a swig of his drink, swishing the beverage over his tongue as though considering how best to reply. His scrutiny roamed in seeming indifference over the furnishings of the library, the leather-bound volumes, floor to ceiling, on countless shelves. At once his gaze sharpened and he turned his attention to his guest.
“There’s only one answer, and I think you know it as well as I do. I want you to court Jillian in earnest and when the time is right wed her.”
Adrian did not bother to protest, for he could not claim the distinction of being a gentleman if he did. Simon was right. His sister had been ruined, and it was the earl’s responsibility as the despoiler—albeit unwittingly—to rectify her situation. That did not keep his spirits from plummeting into his boots.
“It is, of course, the only answer,” Adrian said, trying to keep the dejection out of his voice. “I don’t wish to be forward and invite myself to dinner, but I can meet her tonight if you would like and begin my campaign immediately.”
“She’s not here.”
“Oh?”
Simon took another gulp of his drink, pausing as if unsure how to respond. This time his hesitation did not seem feigned.
“I think I should warn you, this may not be as easy as we might hope,” he said. “Jillian is not the most even-tempered gel I know. These last years have been hard on her, and she’s developed some, ah…strange notions. I’m hoping marriage to a good man will help her settle down.”
“And I qualify?” Adrian asked, smiling grimly.
“If you are willing to right what is wrong then yes.” The marquess leaned forward in his chair and placed his arms on the desk, his expression heartfelt. “Look, Adrian, I know you’ve been in a scrape or two, however, I never meant to imply that you are an evil person. But Jilly is my sister. Understand?”
Unfortunately, the earl did understand. He sighed. “Where is Lady Jillian residing?”
“She’s living with our Aunt Prudence Milford on a small estate about twenty miles south of here. When Jillian reached her majority she came into an inheritance from Evangeline, Prudence’s sister, who passed away some time ago. The two sisters lived together, both never married, and when Evangeline died Pru invited Jilly to come live with her. My sister was desperate to have some autonomy in her life, and since she was financially independent she leapt at the opportunity. She runs the place with Pru’s complete approval.”
“How do you suggest I go about introducing myself?”
“You and I can ride over tomorrow and break the news. I see no reason why you can’t use my home during your courtship,” the marquess said, magnanimous now that his demands were being met. “You’re welcome to stay the summer—longer if need be.”
“That would make things easier and lend an air of respectability. You shouldn’t count on either myself or Lady Jillian being accepted by those who matter, though. We both have a lot to overcome in the eyes of society.”
Adrian stopped for a moment, anticipating a question he knew the other man wanted to ask. He decided to broach the sensitive subject himself.
Coughing uneasily, he said, “Not that your sister did anything wrong, Simon, except perhaps use poor judgment.”
Simon nodded slowly. “Jillian said as much. I believed her, but I’m glad you can corroborate her claim.” He leaned forward, holding his hand over his desk. “We have an agreement?”
This time the two men shook hands. Adrian settled back in his chair and took a mouthful of his drink, reveling in the alcohol as it burned the back of his throat. The pain helped dilute the intense disappointment. All the years he’d been in exile, his greatest desire had been to return home. Now to find this awaiting him—a wife not of his own choosing.
With his visit to Sutherfield, Adrian had come to the one place where he could not escape the past. Ironically, in doing so he also had come face to face with his future.
*****
“Simon’s come?” Jillian cried. She jumped up from the chair where she sat in the morning room, having removed a pair of mud-encrusted work boots. “Where?” she asked the maid who had delivered the news.
“In the parlor, miss,” Hannah replied. Jillian headed for the door. “I wonder why he is here. I don’t think it’s Cassandra’s time yet.”
“My lady?”
She turned back to the maid. “Yes?”
“Your gown is rather dirty. Do you think perhaps…?”
“Simon doesn’t stand on ceremony,” Jillian said, examining the mud that clung to her clothing and the bare toes that peeked from beneath the hem of her skirt.
“But, my lady—”
“Oh, all right, Hannah, if you insist.”
Jillian moved to the mirror on the wall over the sideboard and looked at herself. She dampened her pinky finger with her tongue and ran it daintily over each eyebrow. She glanced this way and that, pretending to study the effect as her dark hair, carelessly tied a
t the nape of her neck, swung to and fro down her back.
“There, that’s an improvement. I know Simon will appreciate my efforts.”
“Yes, my lady,” Hannah said through lips so tight with disapproval, Jillian was not certain she saw the maid’s mouth move when she spoke.
“Good. Now I can get on with the business of greeting my brother.”
Jillian left the morning room and dashed down the hall. In the parlor Simon stood next to the fireplace, and she danced across the carpet, throwing herself into his arms.
“Simon, it’s been weeks,” she said, hugging him tightly. “What brings you here? It isn’t Cassandra’s time yet, is it?”
“No, it’s not Cassandra’s time,” he said. He pulled back and surveyed her with a critical eye.
Did she detect censure in his attitude? His cool reception, along with the notion that Hannah might have been right, caused her to bite back at him.
“I’ve been in the garden. If I’d had some notice I would have prepared myself for your venerated visit.”
“Yes, well…” he began, clearly uncomfortable. She watched as his gaze drifted past her shoulder and across the room.
An unwelcome suspicion caused Jillian to spin around. She gasped. On the far side of the room occupying Auntie Pru’s favorite chair was a gentleman, sitting quietly, expressionless. Watching her. If she could have disappeared through the floor, she would have gladly taken that escape.
“You didn’t mention we had company, Simon,” she managed through her embarrassment.
She continued to look at the man, and an odd feeling of recognition came over her. Something about the black hair and the handsome features tickled her memory—and the eyes, light blue and piercing. Yes, the eyes…
The swollen lip was new.
“Didn’t give me the opportunity, did you, Jilly?” her brother was saying, “I would like to introduce you to—”
In the Garden of Disgrace Page 3