In the Garden of Disgrace

by Cynthia Wicklund

  “If anyone could deter me it would be you, Jillian.”

  “Then stay.”

  “I can’t. I let you stop me earlier, my love, because the truth is I wanted you—no, more than that—needed you. But what kind of a man would I be if in the end I let my baser needs prevent me from doing what is honorable?”

  “Is not the desire for revenge a base need, Adrian? I see no honor in an unnecessary death.”

  “Are you afraid for my life, Jillian?” he asked quietly.

  “No. I’m afraid you will take a life. I do not remember Lionel being skilled with a pistol.”

  “He should have thought of that before he undertook to be a scoundrel.

  “You’ve humiliated him enough, Adrian. Why push for more?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “You are right about that.” Jillian twitched the sheet impatiently, twisting it around herself as she scooted off the bed. “I do understand this, though—you made a promise to yourself, and that is the most damaging promise of all to break. In the end you will seek forgiveness, and if you are fortunate it will be forthcoming from everyone—everyone but you.”

  His expression turned hard. “That is something with which I’ll have to learn to live.”

  “But I won’t,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  His brows snapped together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”

  “You are in the unique position of ending a disaster before it begins, Adrian. A legacy of pain has taught you what to expect. If you kill Lionel you will have to leave the country again, perhaps forever. I can’t go with you.”

  At least she had his attention. “I don’t think it will come to that,” he said. “And if it will make you feel any better, I have no intention of killing Edgeworth.”

  “But things happen unexpectedly. No one should know that better than you. Surely you did not intend to kill Viscount Lindley either.”

  “He was to blame for his own demise.”

  “Of course he was, Adrian, but in the end does it matter who is to blame?”

  He shook his head, but it appeared to be a gesture aimed more at underscoring his determination than in finding agreement with her. She felt her spirits sink.

  “You are going, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry, Jillian.” He paused as he opened the door, his gaze now filled with sadness. “I do love you.”

  As he shut her into the room, Jillian felt her temper flare. Damn! she thought, surely she could have said something, done something that would have stopped him. Quite brazen of her to believe that all she had to do was tantalize him and he would retreat from his goal. Oh no, not Adrian St. John, the stubborn Earl of Wickham, a man who would rather sacrifice everything he had than concede his honor.

  So be it. But the day wasn’t over yet and Phillip would be much easier to manage. She stalked across the room and yanked the bell pull to order water for the tub. She would bathe, she would dress and she would wait.

  *****

  “Jilly, please don’t ask this of me.”

  “All right, Phillip, I shall refrain from making you uncomfortable, and you can watch the life I have planned with Adrian evaporate with your courage.

  “Not fair,” her cousin said, his face flaring with indignation.

  The night had arrived, clear with just a hint of cool. Minutes earlier Phillip had paid the remainder of her tab and was now helping Jillian into his phaeton.

  “I’m not worried about fair,” she said. “We must stop that duel somehow.”

  “It is not my place to stop it, Jilly,” he said, climbing in beside her and snapping the reins. “I’m Lord Wickham’s second, remember? You are putting me in an awkward position.”

  “I’m giving you the opportunity to prevent a tragedy. Looking at it from that angle you should feel gratified—no, more than that—you should want to help.”

  He snorted. “Of course, I should.”

  Jillian smiled in the darkness, aware he was starting to relent. For several moments she remained silent, wanting to broach another subject that disturbed her, but not knowing how to begin.

  “Phillip?” she said at last.

  “Yes?” She heard the wary note in his voice.

  “I…that is to say…” She swallowed. “I heard something that has me concerned, and I was hoping you might be able to put some light on the matter.”

  “If I can.”

  “Do you remember telling me about the gossip in London regarding Lord Edgeworth and me?”

  “Hard to forget,” he said.

  “Lionel told me that the talk reached the betting book at White’s. Is that true?”

  Phillip glanced at her and she caught the consternation on his face. “You shouldn’t know about such things, Jilly. Are you positive you want to talk about this?”

  “I see. It’s all right for my name to appear on the pages in a derogatory manner. I’m just not supposed to know about it, is that it?”

  “You misunderstand what I’m trying to say.”

  “Let’s not argue about this, Phillip, please. Just tell me, do you know if Adrian placed a bet in the book regarding me?”

  “He declared his intention to marry you, yes.”

  Jillian was crushed. “Oh. I-I had hoped Lionel had lied.”

  “Why? What did Edgeworth say?”

  “Mostly that Adrian had dealt me a public humiliation by exposing my relationship with him.”

  “Ha! That’s an interesting way to look at it.”

  The derision in her cousin’s voice caused her to look at him with a trace of optimism.

  Phillip continued. “What Wickham did went as far as possible toward rescuing your reputation which, I might add, others seemed determined to destroy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re certain you want to hear this?” He looked at her again clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.

  She nodded, not certain at all.

  “There was boasting going on in White’s that night—I was there so I can verify. One man in particular proclaimed to know you and the variety of woman you are. Said you and Edgeworth were already lovers if one were to ask him. Wickham was infuriated and I feared he meant to challenge the man to a duel. I think everyone did. Instead, he made the fellow admit to lying, and then he placed a bet in the book.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, indeed. With that wager he told the world he found you worthy to be his countess. Somehow I find it difficult to believe he meant to insult you.”

  Jillian was too overcome with relief and thankfulness to do more than murmur, “I suppose you are right.”

  “Feel better now?”

  “Much.” And then, “The wager says we will marry before the end of the year?”

  “Yes. And if it doesn’t happen Wickham stands to lose ten thousand pounds.”

  “Oh, he’ll win,” Jillian said, “he’ll win.”

  Phillip turned on her a look of outright pleasure. “I’m glad to hear it, Jilly, I really am.” He smacked the reins with renewed vigor. “Now, let’s return to our earlier discussion—I assume, given that Wickham did the unthinkable and left you alone for hours to scheme, you’ve been doing that very thing.”

  “Actually, I have,” Jillian said, folding her hands primly in her lap. “And with what you’ve just told me, now more than ever I know stopping that duel is the right thing to do. If you’ll listen I think you’ll agree that my idea has merit.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  She shrugged.

  “I see. You intend to force my hand regardless.” Phillip sighed. “Right then, tell me what you have.”

  Jillian gave him a smile she hoped reflected her gratitude. “First we need to stop by the home of Lady Edgeworth. I believe Meredith’s cooperation will prove invaluable.”

  *****

  Later that evening in the hour past midnight, Jillian stood in the middle of her parlor. Her arms outstretched, she twirled
for her two companions, displaying the male clothing she wore.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asked.

  “You do not look masculine enough,” Meredith said as she eyed the costume. “Impossible that anyone will mistake you for a man, Jillian.”

  “No man I’d want to be,” Phillip muttered. “Too many curves. And if you think you’ve been talked about before, Jilly, wait until the wrong person sees you in that attire.”

  “Do you think so?” Jillian asked. “I wonder. Course I’d probably be recognized, hence the domino.” She pointed to the black cape and mask that lay on the settee. “I’m not as tall or broad as a man, I admit, but wearing that will hide much.”

  Meredith wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know how you can tolerate wearing those trousers.”

  “Really? Curious, but I believe I like wearing them. Gives me a sense of freedom. Why, I can plop onto a chair and never worry about whom I might offend with my rising skirts. Do you think Adrian will mind if I wear trousers once in a while?—only in the country, you understand.”

  Just as she had intended both Meredith and Phillip stared at her in stupefaction.

  “Tell you what, Jilly,” Phillip said, shaking his head, “I think I should feel sorry for your intended.”

  Jillian smiled. “It is a good thing Aunt Pru has already gone to bed or I would never hear the end of it. You must promise not to tell her about the trousers, Phillip. She will be upset enough when she finds out how we spent this evening.” When he gave her a reluctant nod, she asked, “What time is it?”

  Her cousin checked his timepiece. “Just after one o’clock. I promised Wickham I would meet him at the site at fifteen minutes before five. We should leave about four.”

  “We have a few hours to waste then. What does everyone suggest?”

  The consensus was food since, with all the excitement, no one seemed to have eaten. They piled into the kitchen, raiding the larder, and for a brief while Jillian was transported to another time eight years before when she had felt the same camaraderie with these two individuals she felt tonight. Not that things could ever be like they were, but at least for a little while it was nice to pretend.

  Plates laden, they wandered into the small dining room and sat at the table.

  “I’ve not had this much fun in ages,” Meredith said. And that did appear to be the truth, for she looked more composed and less ragged than she had in recent days. “If I weren’t so worried about Lionel everything would be perfect.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, Merry,” Phillip put in, “but I don’t see how you could still care for your husband. I think something is fundamentally wrong there.”

  “One can’t always choose where to love,” Meredith said, evidently unoffended. “I’ve done things, things of which I’m ashamed,” her gaze slid in Jillian’s direction, “to have a life with Lionel. I know you both must believe me insane, but I’m happier with him than without him.”

  “Do you think the baby will make a difference?” Jillian asked.

  Phillip, who had been staring at his plate of food, shaking his head with an attitude of outright amazement as Meredith spoke, looked up when Jillian asked the question.

  “Baby?” he inquired.

  Meredith nodded. “Lionel and I are expecting a child.”

  The expression on Phillip’s face indicated that he wondered the same thing Jillian had wondered when she first heard the news—how had that couple stopped hurting one another long enough to make a child? However, if the marquess still took his wife to his bed, it was obvious why Meredith still had hopes.

  After that the trio spent the remainder of the night speaking on topics of a less personal nature, much to Jillian’s relief. They returned to the parlor after eating, all three complaining of drowsiness. Meredith and Phillip on opposite sides of the settee dozed, thus Jillian found herself alone with her thoughts.

  She could hear the ticking of the grandfather’s clock in the entry hall, the time between the hourly chimes seeming interminable. She paced the floor, a nervous crawling under her skin caused by the odd sensation of exhaustion mixed with an inability to sleep.

  Five minutes before the hour of four she roused her companions.

  *****

  The air was cooler than Jillian had expected for a morning late in August. What remained of the night sky was clear, an unending expanse of blue-black sporting a few lingering stars. She and her partners in subterfuge had ridden in a hired carriage to the dueling site, a field outside Bath on the west side of the town. Phillip had the driver park some distance away, hoping, he indicated, to avoid discovery.

  “You ladies stay here unless absolutely necessary,” he said. “I don’t want either of you hurt.”

  “Phillip,” Jillian said, “do you really believe they will cancel this madness without someone’s intervention? Merry and I are prepared to do what we must, aren’t we Merry?”

  Meredith, her face a study in stoicism, nodded.

  They watched Phillip trot to the field where several male bodies—no one Jillian could identify—milled around.

  “How does news travel so fast?” Jillian asked, shaking her head. “Look at all the people who have come out to witness the bloodshed.”

  “Can’t imagine what kind of person would be interested in something this depraved,” Meredith said, her eyes like shiny crystals in the shadows of the carriage. “This reminds me of eight years ago, doing what we really oughtn’t and having a wonderful time. Strange how things have come about. It has taken you a long time to recover, Jillian, but I feel certain you will be happy.”

  “I wish the same for you, Merry. Hopefully this baby—”

  “I am under no delusions,” Meredith interrupted, “that this baby will turn Lionel into the man he should be. But maybe he will feel more loyalty toward me, being as I’m carrying his child. I hope it is a boy,” she said wistfully.

  Jillian, moved by pity, did not know what to say to that. Instead, she turned her attention to the field. Frustrated by her inability to see, she grabbed the mask on the seat that matched the domino she wore and opened the carriage door.

  “Come on, Merry, there’s no sense waiting here until it is all over and we can do no good—which is, by the way, what I think Phillip has in mind.” She climbed to the ground and helped the other woman do the same. To the driver, she said, “Remember what I told you. If all goes as we discussed you will be handsomely rewarded.”

  “Aye, m’lady,” the man said.

  The two ladies, holding hands, skirted the field, staying in the shadows and hopefully far enough from the main event to remain undetected. Since Jillian wore male clothing, if someone did see them, from such a distance they would probably be perceived as a young couple out on an adventure.

  A hedgerow grew along the westerly side of the field and they made for that, hunching low which brought them close enough to hear voices but still provided protection. Peeking through the foliage, Jillian put her index finger to her lips, signaling her companion to silence.

  From what she could determine the rules of etiquette were being discussed, rules that would guide the two gentlemen as they tried to kill one another. She shook her head, baffled by the demented quality of the proceedings.

  She wished Adrian would turn around, for his back was to her and she could not see his expression. However, she could see Lionel. In the light of a torch held by a person Jillian did not know, Meredith’s husband resembled a man near death, his pasty face pinched with apprehension.

  “Oh, Jillian,” Meredith moaned, “Lionel looks terrible.”

  “He’s terrified, Merry, and with good reason. Though I think, given his obvious fright, you might want to be proud of him because he did come. Many men have run under such overwhelming circumstances.”

  “I don’t care for that—I just want him to be all right.” At once Meredith gasped. “They are taking out the pistols!”

  And they were. Another man, also unknown to Jillian, held open th
e box that contained the weapons. She turned to her friend.

  “I’m afraid it is now or never. Are you able to continue?”

  Meredith brought trembling fingers to her lips. “I think I’m about to be ill,” she whimpered.

  “You can’t give into weakness, not now. See here, they are lining up.”

  The two combatants stood back to back, pistols held in the air, the barrels of their respective guns vertical to the ground. Any moment the count would begin, a count that would end in gunfire and possible death. At the very least one of the men would be wounded.

  Jillian gave Meredith a fierce shove. “Go!”

  Meredith, eyes alight with dread, rose up and bounded awkwardly over the hedgerow. Twigs caught at her skirt and Jillian heard the rending of cloth. Merry stumbled free of the bushes, almost losing her balance. Before she had fully righted herself she began to run. It was probably the best diversion she could have provided, for the Marchioness of Edgeworth was pitched headlong—due to her own clumsiness—onto the field, only yards from where the hostilities were in progress.

  As Jillian had hoped, Meredith had created a spectacular distraction. The lady was on her feet now, weeping loudly, begging Lord Wickham not to kill her husband.

  Lionel approached his wife. “Meredith,” Jillian heard him say, “you shouldn’t be here. This is no place for a woman.”

  “Lionel, please, there is something I must tell you. I-I can’t let you die without knowing.”

  Meredith clung to him and, with a gentleness that amazed Jillian for its unexpectedness, Lionel put his arm around his wife and led her away from the gawkers. Maybe the threat of death had made him realize what he was about to lose.

  Jillian, her fingers shaking with the audacity of what she intended to do, put the mask she carried over her face and laced the ties. Everyone appeared to be watching the Edgeworths thus she came to her feet, straightening as she did, and began running down the length of the hedgerow. The first gap in the bushes, she stepped through the opening and onto the field. That strategy, coming from the angle she did, allowed her to sidle toward the group while garnering the least amount of attention.