In the Garden of Disgrace

by Cynthia Wicklund

  Meredith watched her, attitude hostile, and Jillian wondered how much the other woman knew. Once pretty, Meredith had lost weight and her features were drawn, red hair pulled back in an unflattering chignon. Jillian wanted to strike out, to voice her outrage, but the only emotion she could muster was pity.

  She could think of nothing more to say. A great chasm of misunderstanding yawned between them, one that couldn’t be breached even if they both had wanted it. Jillian knew she did not, not now, not with what she had learned. And she doubted Meredith did either. Any woman willing to forsake her honor for a man regardless of the cost had most probably not changed. Lionel would always stand between them.

  “Lovely seeing you, Merry.” She used the pet name, and for the first time her old friend looked uneasy. “I wish you well.”

  Strangely, Jillian meant what she said. She had heard the rumors surrounding Edgeworth, how he had gambled away his own inheritance and was now slowly eroding his wife’s as well. The young woman in front of her had a difficult future to confront, and Jillian found herself unable to envy her.

  Meredith nodded curtly. She turned away and then, as if in afterthought, looked back, an odd expression—guilt mixed with sorrow?—lining her face. “I’m sorry, Jillian, truly I am. I-I never wanted to hurt you. If it makes you feel any better, I have paid for my sins.” Grasping her skirt and lifting the hem, she walked briskly down the book aisle and around the corner.

  She knows I know something, Jillian thought. Again she was moved to pity, and with it came relief. Hate is a terrible burden, one with which she felt nearly incapable of dealing. To feel compassion for Meredith meant she could not hate her. Jillian drew in a calming breath, allowing the serenity of forgiveness to flow over her wounded spirits. Tonight, for the first time in many nights she would sleep better, much better.

  *****

  Adrian was only half-drunk. He sat in White’s gentlemen’s club in London, alone, sipping on port, having lost count of the number of glasses he had imbibed. This was when he felt most at peace, when neither sober nor floored but comfortably mellow. Then he could think about Jillian and not suffer unduly. Without alcohol he was faced with the stark reality of his situation. When brimming with drink he was too maudlin to think at all.

  He was surprised by how easily he had readjusted to the world he had left behind. Rather than rejection as he had feared, many of his old cronies had accepted him back without question. It seemed his past had been relegated to masculine pursuits where males were less hard on one another and understood when a man had to make a difficult choice. It would be more complicated when he tried to socialize in mixed company. But Adrian was cynical enough to know that his title and bank balance would be the only keys needed to unlock the homes of many of the elite.

  The earl could only be heartened that there was no talk of arrests or trials related to Findley’s death. Apparently, Findley had been universally disliked. Adrian’s performance on the dueling field eight years before, rather than bringing him censure, had over time taken on legendary proportions. Young men he had never met approached him with awe. He was discomfited by the attention because the crux of the matter for Adrian had always been that he had killed a man.

  He looked across the club, his gaze connecting with a gentleman of perhaps twenty-six or seven years. He knew the fair-haired man had been watching him for some time and he sighed inwardly. Another misguided chap to whom he would have to explain the difference between necessity and bravado.

  In resignation he raised his glass and motioned the fellow over to his table since clearly that was what the young man had in mind. The watcher jumped eagerly from his seat, threading through the patrons to the earl’s side.

  “Lord Wickham?”

  “Yes,” Adrian said without rising. “And you are?”

  “Phillip Angsley, my lord.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so but we have mutual friends.”

  “I believe nearly everyone in this club could say the same thing. Why have you been watching me?”

  Blood rushed to Mr. Angsley’s face. “Have I been that obvious?” When Adrian merely raised his brows at him, he continued. “Yes, well…I do have a reason for wanting to speak with you, my lord. I am cousin to Simon Fitzgerald, Marquess of Sutherfield.”

  Adrian unbent immediately. “We do indeed have mutual friends. Please, pull up a chair,” he said, thrusting his hand at the young man.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Phillip said, taking the proffered seat. “I didn’t want to intrude on your peace. You had the look of a man engaged in some serious drinking.”

  “Perceptive,” Adrian drawled.

  His companion smiled. “I have a message from Simon.”

  “Do you, now? Does he think I’ve been neglecting my promise to him?”

  “My lord?”

  “Never mind. You’re right—I’m on my way to being drunk. Perhaps you had better give me the message while I can still comprehend what you are saying.”

  Phillip smiled again. “I ‘spose I should start at the beginning so you understand why Simon has chosen me to help him. I witnessed the duel between you and Findley. “

  “I see.”

  “I was there that night with Jillian.”

  The earl straightened in his chair. “So you are that cousin Phillip. I assume because of your involvement in her escapade, Simon feels he has the right to call on you when needed.”

  “Something like that although for the most part there has been little I could do. However, there is a rumor that has concerned me and I took it to Simon. I got back to London last evening with instructions from him that I was to talk to you and then journey to Bath.”

  Adrian frowned. “You’ve lost me.”

  Phillip leaned forward, expression earnest. “A few days ago in this very club I heard several gentlemen talking. Jilly is in Bath—I didn’t know it at the time—with Aunt Pru. Lord Edgeworth is there as well—ah, I see by the look on your face you know who he is. At any rate, Edgeworth is making a cake of himself over Jillian, approaching her whenever she goes out. That in itself is not so unusual. Many men have made cakes of themselves over my cousin, but given the history she shares with Edgeworth, well, you understand. Thing is, Edgeworth’s wife has accompanied him, and everyone is scandalized by his behavior.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Adrian then asked the question that concerned him most. “Is Jillian encouraging him?”

  “I don’t know. If she is it would be out of character. But the gossipmongers are more interested in titillating talk than actual truth. By the time hearsay makes the trip from one city to the next, who knows what is and what is not?”

  “Exactly what is being said?”

  Outwardly calm, the earl felt a fire surge in his gut that had little to do with the spirits he had consumed. He nailed Phillip with a piercing gaze, and the young man cleared his throat as if beginning to feel nervous. Obviously, Adrian’s calm exterior displayed a few cracks.

  “They are making bets, my lord, in the betting book. That’s what I witnessed the other night.”

  “Here? At White’s?” When his companion nodded, the earl rapped out, “What is the wager?”

  All at once Angsley looked liked a condemned man facing the hangman. He coughed into his hand then rubbed that palm against the leg of his breeches, stalling for time.

  Finally, he said, “Odds are being laid on when Edgeworth’s former love will become his current lover.”

  “Bloody hell!” Adrian clamped his teeth together with such force he thought his jaw might snap. “I take it,” he rasped, “that Edgeworth is known for his infidelities.”

  “And his gambling,” Phillip agreed. “He’s lost a fortune. They say he’d be in dun territory if not for his wife.”

  The earl allowed his gaze to drift to where the betting book was displayed prominently in the club. Several gentlemen surrounded the table on which it lay, conversing and laughing. On
e fulsome fellow’s words carried across the room. “I’d be willing to wager we are too late,” he said in a drunken voice. “Knowing the lady, I suspect the deed is already done.”

  At that moment Adrian was seized by a fury that brought him to his feet before he knew he had done it. He was surprised to find himself standing, fists clenched at his side. He had no idea what had happened in Bath or for that matter what was happening now, but he knew Jillian did not deserve to be disparaged in such a cavalier fashion.

  “Be careful, my lord. Outright anger could do more harm than good,” Phillip said.

  The earl stared at Angsley, who remained seated, trying to clear the haze of wrath clouding his vision so he could bring the young man’s face into focus. For the first time in a very long time he remembered how one might become embroiled in a duel. Nodding curtly, Adrian strolled through the club and joined the group of men who still lingered around the book. He glanced down on the open pages, scanning the entries until he found what he was seeking. Then he turned to the loudmouthed individual.

  “You know Lady Jillian Fitzgerald?”

  The group of gentlemen fell away, leaving the earl to confront his victim. Adrian knew his reputation as a duelist preceded him, not to mention his part in Jillian’s disgrace, and he could feel the crackle of anticipation that filled the room even as the noise subsided to a deathly silence.

  “Do you?” he asked again, his voice deceptively soft.

  The man’s face looked like bleached linen, stark against his black hair. “D-did I say I knew her? That’s not p-precisely what I meant.”

  For several moments Adrian stared at him, unwavering, as the poor fellow appeared to shrink inwardly.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” the earl said at last. “I suggest you remember your facts the next time you are moved to boast.”

  Turning to the table and the betting book, arrogantly dismissing, Adrian sensed the collective sigh of relief—perhaps disappointment?—of those in the club. He reached for the quill next to the book, dipping it into the inkwell, and with great deliberation scrawled on the page. He straightened, dropped the pen and headed for the entrance to the murmur of excited voices.

  Phillip met him at the door. “My lord, what did you wager?”

  The earl stepped into the night air, air free of the stench of innuendo, moving aside so Angsley could follow him.

  “Nothing really,” Adrian said, a determined smile playing about his mouth. “I merely wagered ten thousand pounds on my pledge that before year’s end Lady Jillian Fitzgerald will be the new Countess of Wickham.”

  *****

  CHAPTER 11

  “Phillip!” Jillian raced down the stairs and into the entry of the Bath townhouse and flung herself into her cousin’s arms. “What are you doing here?”

  Phillip Angsley returned the hug then pulled back, scanning her features. “I say, Jilly, you look well. Do I have to have a reason for paying a visit to my favorite cousin?”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “I rather think you do, dear.” Linking arms with him, she led him into the parlor. “Out with it now and I’ll accept no fibbing.”

  He flopped in the chair—a fragile Chippendale with creaky joints—nearest him. “How about a glass of wine?”

  “Why, Phillip, it’s not even the noon hour yet. Don’t tell me you have fallen into dissipated ways.”

  “Not usually, but if it’s going to be an inquisition I think I need to be fortified.”

  Jillian paused, aware that beneath his bantering tone her cousin appeared nervous.

  “Simon sent you, didn’t he?” she asked, feeling deflated.

  “Now, Jilly, you needn’t sound as though that’s such a bad thing. It’s his responsibility to see to your well-being.”

  “Did he send you here to spy on me?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “He never said anything about spying. He, ah…Jilly, tell me about Edgeworth.”

  “Lord Edgeworth? What are you implying?” At once her pulse leapt nervously. “What have you heard?”

  “That Edgeworth is interested in you again.”

  “Where did you hear such a thing?”

  Phillip watched her from behind drooping eyelids, attitude hesitant. “In London at White’s.”

  Jillian brought a white-knuckled fist to her throat as the import of his words drained the energy from her limbs. “Am I implicated?” she asked in a shaken whisper.

  “Sit down, Jilly. I wasn’t going to tell you the whole but you make it impossible to lie.”

  “Just tell me what you have heard, please. I’ve been through this before and I—”

  Jillian felt her legs give way and Phillip jumped from his chair, leading her to the settee. He saw her seated then joined her, all the while holding her chilly hand.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I didn’t want to hurt you. You’ve been through so much. Really, all Simon wanted me to do was come and provide protection, shield you from the gossip. My presence might even help mitigate it somewhat.”

  She glanced at him, stricken. “Does he think I’ve done something I shouldn’t? I swear, Phillip, I’ve done nothing for which I need be ashamed.”

  Her cousin sighed. “I know and I’m sure Simon does also. What he does believe is that the past has come back to haunt you. A heartsick swain does not mean you have done anything wrong, but with your history and the swain being who he is…”

  “This is not fair, not fair at all. I am innocent this time.” She pursed her lips angrily. “The rumors have really reached London?” When he nodded, she insisted again, “Tell me exactly what has been said.”

  He hung his head in resignation. “If you are not already Edgeworth’s lover you are soon to be.”

  Though she already had guessed what he had to say, hearing the words sent a wave of distress through her chest. “Society must think very poorly of me. He’s a married man, Phillip, and his wife was once my dearest friend.”

  “You know that doesn’t mean much to some people. And Meredith did wed him after he broke his engagement to you. There has been speculation over that situation from the beginning.”

  “I suppose.”

  Phillip squeezed her hand gently. “Weren’t you aware people were beginning to talk?”

  “I guess so because Aunt Pru was worried. She said I should refrain from going out until—” She sighed. “I don’t know…until things are better. I haven’t been anywhere or seen anyone for days.”

  “It isn’t fair, you are right. Has it been difficult, being in society, I mean?”

  “I haven’t given people the chance to snub me. Stayed to myself mostly or hovered in Aunt Pru’s shadow. No one wants to hurt her by hurting me. Since the Season only ended in London last week, most of the ton have been there instead of here so I’ve been spared the worst of it. I suppose that will change now.” Jillian sighed again. “I’m so bored. I’ve read until my eyes ache. I wish I could go home and do the things I enjoy.”

  “Self-pity is not you, Jilly,” Phillip said. “Where’s the stubborn woman who fights back? Where’s the indignation she conjures when she feels misunderstood? I miss her. And you’ll forgive me if I say so but I think I like her better.”

  She looked at him in apology. “I grow weary of the battle.”

  “What’s brought this on? You already sound defeated.”

  “I know,” she mumbled. “I’ve become introspective of late, I guess. I’m restless as though there must be something more to life than what I’m currently experiencing. And you are right, maudlin thoughts can lead to self-pity because I do feel awfully sorry for myself right now. I hardly need anyone else’s sympathy when I’m giving myself an extra helping.”

  The chime rang at that instant and Phillip was saved from having to respond. His relief was so transparent that Jillian had to stifle a gurgle of laughter.

  She moved to the entrance of the parlor to look into the front hall rather than waiting for a servant to announce the visitor. A footm
an had opened the door, but from her vantage point Jillian was unable to observe who stood on the step. A deep voice, painfully familiar, drifted into the entry, and alarm mixed with excitement skittered through her system.

  “One moment, my lord,” she heard the footman say as the servant ushered the Earl of Wickham inside. “My mistress is presently entertaining but perhaps she will receive you.”

  Jillian panicked. The one person she wanted most to see and yet dreaded most to see—how was she to resolve those two contradictory feelings? She turned from the doorway to her cousin, hoping for some insight.

  “Phillip, it’s the Earl of Wickham. What am I to do?”

  Much to her surprise Phillip’s face broke into a broad grin. “Lord Wickham? By Jove, invite him in. He’s a right one, Jilly. I like him.”

  “Since when do you know the earl?” she asked in a irritated whisper, then hurriedly turned back to the door because the footman had entered the parlor. “Yes?”

  “The Earl of Wickham has come to call, my lady.”

  “I-I’m busy,” she began. “Tell him to come back. I—”

  From behind the footman a mellow voice tinged with amusement interrupted her. “My, my, Lady Jillian, you don’t intend to turn me away, do you? I’ve come quite a distance to pay you a call.”

  For a very long, very uncomfortable moment no one spoke. Jillian would have broken the quiet but Adrian had snared her with a relentless stare, giving the lie to the humor in his words. She swallowed, self-consciously aware that not only Phillip but the footman were privy to the silent communication. A fool might mistake the violent undercurrents. However, Jillian detected no fools in the room.

  “Come in, my lord,” she said stonily.

  Adrian brushed past the footman as the servant retreated, the earl’s gaze lingering meaningfully on Phillip.

  Phillip gulped. “Tell you what,” he said, rising hastily from the settee, “it’s time for me to leave. Jilly, it’s been nice to see you. I’ll return tomorrow.” He bowed in Adrian’s direction. “Good to see you also, my lord.”