In the Garden of Disgrace

by Cynthia Wicklund

  “Across the Avon,” he said abruptly.

  Nonplussed by his vague answer, Jillian gave up trying to communicate with him and looked out her own window. Gradually the streets changed from ones she knew to ones she did not know. She expected any moment the carriage would turn onto one of the many avenues where the fashionable sought housing, but the hackney continued on its journey, and sure enough they took the bridge that crossed the River Avon. When at last they entered a neighborhood that could be called modest if one were being generous, she turned to her companion.

  “Lionel, where are we?” she asked, not bothering to hide the consternation in her voice.

  “We’re almost there,” he said.

  “You still have not said where that is.”

  “See for yourself. We are pulling to the curb as we speak.”

  So they were. As the hackney came to a halt, Jillian peeked out the window to see a small townhouse in the midst of more houses much the same. Although the townhouse appeared newly painted and in decent condition, it showed in obvious contrast to the dilapidated residences on either side.

  Jillian gave the marquess an incredulous look. “You live here?” she asked.

  Lionel had opened the door and, after leaping out, helped her to the ground. “It’s not so bad,” he said, sounding defensive as he turned to pay the driver.

  Jillian glanced at his face, and once again she noticed his truculent attitude. More and more she realized she had made a mistake in coming.

  They were met at the door by a burly fellow with thick features and a dull look in his eye. The man wore no livery, thus Jillian assumed he was not a butler or footman. Even if he had been appropriately costumed, she could not imagine a less likely individual as an upper servant. Strange that this seedy person was opening the door to those who called on the Marquess.

  “Riley,” Lionel said to the man, “everything quiet?”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Riley answered in an ignorant accent, his gaze darting to Jillian. “Ain’t nobody been to see you ‘cept that one woman what was ‘ere last week. She was real angry—”

  “That’s enough,” Lionel cut him off. “Tell me about it later.” Taking Jillian’s elbow, he said, “We have a guest Lady Jillian who will be with us for a little while.”

  As the hulking servant centered his full attention on her, Jillian felt the energy drain from her body. Despite her weakness she pulled her arm free of Lionel’s grasp and backed away from the men as Riley’s face lit with interest.

  “She’s more beautiful than the rest, m’lord,” the servant said on a lopsided grin.

  “Indeed, she is,” Lionel agreed, his eyes narrowing with a less than subtle emotion that made her skin prickle in disgust. Oddly, his bad humor had fallen away as though it had not existed only moments earlier. As she watched him Jillian wondered how she could have ever fancied herself in love with this man.

  “Lionel,” she said, her voice shaking with outrage, “where? Where is your wife? You told me Meredith wanted to see me.”

  The marquess pursed his lips. “Yes, I believe I did—a necessary lie. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Come into my parlor—it’s humble but comfortable,” he said silkily, indicating the first room off the entry, “and I will explain.”

  “No!” She moved toward the main entrance, but Riley stepped in her way. Now feeling truly fearful, she said, “I demand that you take me home immediately.”

  Lionel sighed. “Jillian, I’ve gone to some trouble to bring you here,” he said, the words patient. “If you fight I’ll have to employ Riley’s considerable brawn to change your mind.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Jillian looked first at Lionel and then into Riley’s grinning features and knew she was wrong.

  “I’d rather not but if you give me no choice…” The marquess shrugged.

  How could she have been so stupid? Though given countless alternatives she would never have guessed Lionel’s desire for her had become obsession. Unfortunately, clear thinking was useless at the moment. She either cooperated or would be forced to do what he wanted anyway. With as much dignity as she could muster she marched into the parlor, walking to the far side of the room before spinning around to face her captor.

  “You planned this,” she hissed.

  “I did.” Lionel closed the parlor door, leaving Riley in the hall, much to her relief. “Though, it was easier than I thought it would be. That servant of yours leaving was a stroke of luck.” He moved to the sideboard and the brandy. “Drink?”

  She ignored the question. “When did you decide to bring me here?”

  “When I discovered Wickham had left Bath,” he said, pouring brandy in two glasses.

  “Why, Lionel, why?”

  “Because you are about to make a dastardly mistake, and I feel it is my duty to stop you.” He looked sincere, and she knew he believed what he said.

  “It is beyond your power to alter what I will or will not do, my lord. Your influence in my life ended long ago, and it was your decision.”

  “You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?” he grumbled, crossing the room and handing her one of the glasses. When she shook her head in refusal, he barked, “Take it.”

  Jillian reached for the drink, ashamed that her hand shook.

  “Now take a sip. It will relax you,” he said. “I don’t want you quivering like a frightened mouse.”

  She downed a small swig of the brandy, but her throat refused to participate, probably due to nerves. Her windpipe closed over the burning liquid and she coughed violently, eyes watering.

  As her sight cleared, she wheezed, “I am frightened. What can you expect when I have no idea whether or not you mean to harm me.”

  “Harm you? Do you think I would harm you?”

  She gave him a long, considering look. “I don’t know what to think right now, Lionel. What I do know is if you don’t take me home before it is too late, this little escapade could escalate into a disaster.”

  “Wickham?” He said Adrian’s name as though it were a curse.

  “Among others. My brother will not take kindly to your treatment of me, either.”

  That seemed to give him pause. “I had forgotten about Sutherfield. Well, no matter. I have tonight to convince you, and I aim to do just that.”

  “Tonight?” Jillian’s chest filled with dread. “You can’t mean to keep me here overnight. I’ll be ruined.”

  “Ruined you say?” He laughed cruelly. “That’s like saying I wet down the sea. You’re already ruined, and it’s hardly my fault. That bastard Wickham is at the root of your downfall and, by the by, the root of my ruined life as well. I refuse to take responsibility for his misdeeds.”

  “The problems I have encountered recently with my reputation have been directly related to you, Lionel.”

  “Enough!” he bellowed, startling her. He tossed off the rest of his drink, swallowing slowly as if composing himself. He slanted an irritated look at her. “I don’t want to argue about this right now. We are going to have supper, you and I, and we’ll talk then.” He moved to the door. “Riley will see you to a room where you can freshen yourself. We eat in one half hour.”

  *****

  Jillian glanced at the clock on the bedside table. In less than five minutes Lionel would expect her downstairs where, it seemed, they were to share food and “congenial” conversation. However, her time in this room had not been spent readying herself for the meal ahead. She had instead spent the allotted half hour attempting to devise an escape.

  Her first inclination was to dash to the window. Unluckily, the window frame was nailed to the casing, but it didn’t matter. There were two floors beneath the one she was on and no secure foot or handholds that she might use to climb down the outer wall of the house. Had she been able to get through the window, she would have had to leap to the ground, most likely breaking bones.

  She knew Riley stood watc
h in the hall, mainly because he had told her that’s where he would be. He was a barbarous fellow, clearly unintelligent, and under the right conditions she might be able to manipulate him. She would have to keep that possibility in mind if the opportunity arose.

  The clock chimed the half hour and instantly Riley, as though listening for that very sound, banged on the door once with his meaty fist. “It’s time m’lady.”

  Resigned, at least to the next few hours, Jillian opened the door and followed the servant down the stairs to the dining room.

  Lionel was already there and seated but rose when he saw her. From the looks of him he had spent the last thirty minutes delving deeper into the brandy bottle, for his cheeks had taken on the reddened appearance of one who had been drinking.

  “Come in, come in,” he said expansively, helping Jillian to the table. He turned to Riley. “Serve the entire meal and then retire, but stay close by. If I need you I’ll call.”

  They sat without speaking while the servant did as he was told. Several hot dishes were plopped in the middle of the table before Riley withdrew, lumbering from the room. Jillian did not move but waited for her “host” to take the lead.

  “Hungry?” Lionel asked her.

  “Not really, no.”

  “Neither am I. I’m thirsty, though.” The marquess reached for the brandy decanter at his elbow. “Care for any?” She shook her head, and he shrugged before filling his glass.

  “Did that man cook the dinner?” Jillian asked because she could not believe Riley was capable of such a feat.

  “I have a day servant who comes in. She’s gone now,” he said meaningfully.

  “What is this place, my lord? You intimated this is where you reside, but I know Meredith would never live here.”

  “And so she doesn’t. But I do—most of the time at any rate. Thus I didn’t really lie to you.” He sipped his drink, making a display of rolling it on his tongue before allowing the liquid to slip down his throat.

  “You are being disingenuous, Lionel. You’ve lied to me and you know it. I want to know why you brought me here. What is the mistake you are trying to prevent me from making?”

  “Let’s eat first,” he said smoothly.

  “We’re not hungry, remember?”

  “Fill the plates, Jillian.”

  He was well on his way to being drunk, and drunken people rarely made an effort to be reasonable. She filled the plates.

  When she completed the task, she said, “Now, I’ve done as you have asked. Tell me why I’m here.”

  The marquess leaned forward and placed his drink on the table. “I’m afraid you are becoming serious about Wickham.”

  “And if I am?”

  “He’s no good for you.” He snarled the words.

  “I happen to think he is very good for me.”

  “I’m better.”

  Jillian blinked at him. “Have you lost your mind? You are a married man. How could you possibly be better for me?”

  “Because I truly care about you.”

  “Adrian says he loves me. He has asked me to marry him.”

  “Bah!”

  “Why do you hate him so?”

  Lionel picked up his glass again and took another mouthful. “I knew him at university. He never hid his contempt for me, even years later and him a murderer—how dare he judge me? And lest we forget, I lost you because of him.”

  “Lionel,” Jillian said in a gentle voice, “it doesn’t signify. I love Adrian. I want to marry him. Somehow, after all this time it seems as though it was meant to be, that everything has come full circle.”

  “I could strangle you for saying that,” he ground out, his features now malevolent. He stood from the table, drink in hand, and walked across the room. When he turned to look at her his manner had become sly. “So you think he loves you, do you?”

  Jillian swallowed over a lump of sudden apprehension. “He says he does—I trust him.”

  “What if I could prove he does not, what would you say then?”

  “Be careful, Lionel, for I’m not prepared to believe you,” Jillian had grabbed the edge of the table, gripping so hard the tips of her fingers turned white.

  “Your fancy man has revealed your relationship with him in a rather unsavory way,” he said, spite like a noxious film coating his words. “When he was in London he placed a wager in the book at White’s for all to see.”

  “What was the bet?” she whispered.

  “I see perhaps you are not as indifferent as you would like me to think.”

  “What was the bet?” she demanded again.

  “Ten thousand pounds on the promise that before the end of the year you will be his wife.”

  Jillian wanted to speak, but she could not find the strength. Instead, she stared at him mute and stricken. At last, she said, “Why—?” the word coming out in a croak. She swallowed and tried again. “What would be the point of doing such a thing?”

  “Who knows, a man like that, what he is thinking?” Lionel murmured. He ran an index finger around the rim of his glass. “Pride? Perhaps a challenge was made and he felt compelled to meet it. You know how men are. They drink, they gamble.”

  “I’m sure you would know about that, my lord.”

  “Come on, Jillian, Wickham received his reputation because he could not refuse a dare. The thing to remember is that he has dealt you a very public humiliation. The rumor of that wager is rife, not only in London but in Bath also. Is that the deed of a man who is in love? Makes one wonder,” he continued slyly, “if his marriage proposal is about him winning a bet.”

  Jillian stared at him bleakly. It was as though he had stabbed her, cleaving her breast in two, and the love in her heart, all her hopes for the future, flowed unchecked through the gaping wound. What she felt surpassed pain, surpassed her ability to cry. Nevertheless, through the grief a tiny voice in the back of her mind reminded her that Lionel did not wish her relationship with Adrian to flourish. For now she would hang on to that thought because for her sanity she must.

  “Do you think by telling me this that I will fall into your arms?” she asked, determined to hide her misery from him. “Do you have the ridiculous notion that one man is as good as the next?”

  “What I think is if we remove the distraction of Wickham then you will be able to rediscover your feelings for me.”

  “Your conceit is truly amazing, Lionel. Let me tell you something. The day you cried off because of a scandal is the day I fell out of love with you. Were Adrian to disappear from the earth without a trace, I still would feel nothing more for you than contempt.”

  He had the gall to look hurt. “I don’t believe you. I still love you—you must still love me.”

  Jillian pushed back her chair and stood. “Take me home, my lord, and go back to your wife. It is Meredith who loves you.”

  She opened her mouth to mention his impending fatherhood, but a sense of honor—an honor that might be misplaced—kept her from revealing Meredith’s secret.

  The marquess walked across the room, thrusting her chair out of his way to reach her side. He put his glass on the table and grabbed her, pulling her into his arms. He tried to kiss her but she squirmed frantically, tossing her head from side to side, thus his lips landed on her jaw.

  “Jillian,” he beseeched her, “come above stairs with me. Let me prove my feelings for you.”

  Smelling the brandy on his breath and the strange odor of nervous sweat that emanated from his body, she was overcome by nausea. Jillian was very glad she had not eaten dinner, for her rolling stomach would have tossed the meal at him as an answer. “Do you intend to force me, Lionel?” she asked, struggling against him, “for that is the only way it will happen.”

  “I’ve never forced a woman in my life,” he said, sounding incensed. “How could you suggest such a thing?”

  “Seems to me that’s what you are suggesting.”

  “Why do you object? Is it your reputation? That’s gone. What could it matte
r to you now? And there are things you do not understand, things a mature woman should not have to live without,” here his voice deepened, “things I could show you.”

  “I understand perfectly about those things, Lionel. There is nothing you can show me.” She knew the minute the words left her mouth that she had made a mistake.

  His eyes narrowed, the black of his pupils obliterating the gray. “You’ve been with Wickham, haven’t you?” He shook her. “Haven’t you?”

  Jillian’s head snapped back and she looked at him, aghast.

  “I can see it in your face!” he bellowed.

  Lionel threw her from him and she tripped over the chair, falling to the floor. She scrambled to her feet and backed away, but he made no effort to follow. Instead, he stared at her, his gaze turning thoughtful.

  “Perhaps there is no reason to use scruples when dealing with a harlot,” he said. “After all, what do you have to lose? Certainly not your virtue. And,” he continued, “I think a comparison would be in order. If you are to choose the man, might as well have all the facts.”

  “I’ve made my choice. Nothing you do will change that.”

  “Wickham might not feel that way.”

  “So, now you wish to play the despoiler?”

  He ignored her. “Riley!” he called to his man. When the servant appeared in the doorway, he said, “Take Lady Jillian to her room. Make certain she stays there.”

  “What are you going to do, Lionel?”

  “Haven’t decided yet. I’ve some thinking to do. But be ready for me,” she saw him share a lascivious grin with Riley, “because one way or the other I’ll be up to see you tonight.”