The Tutor (House of Lords)

by Brooke, Meg

No, she would never forget that night.

  “I remember it well,” she agreed now. “And I wish to beg your forgiveness, My Lady.”

  Clarissa grabbed her hand, squeezing it very tightly, her eyes bright with emotion. “Don’t you ever call me that again,” she hissed. “I am Clarissa to you, do you understand?” There were tears in her eyes. “How could you possibly think that it is you who should be begging my forgiveness? If there is anyone who should be groveling, it is your father—and not just to me, but to you as well. Oh, Cynthia, don’t you see? The man is a monster.”

  Cynthia could not disagree with that. “But I should have told you sooner, I should have worked up the courage,” she insisted.

  “Don’t be a ninny, Cynthia. You didn’t tell me because my father had just died. You wanted to spare me more pain. And then I was married rather hastily, and you did what had to be done. There is nothing to forgive.” Her tone had suddenly become so tender that Cynthia felt her lower lip trembling a little.

  “Do you really mean that?”

  “Of course I do,” Clarissa cried, and she threw her arms around Cynthia. For a few blessed minutes, they held each other, both weeping. Then Clarissa pulled away, wiping at her tears. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her cheeks. “But, Cynthia,” she said after she had calmed herself, “I didn’t come here for this. I mean, I wanted to see you—I’ve longed to see you for months now. But there are more pressing matters at hand. I have heard the most dreadful rumors this morning. They are saying that what we witnessed last night at the Farrington’s ball was a lover’s tiff, that you and the Duke of Danforth have had some sort of secret arrangement for months now. There are worse stories circulating as well, but I won’t pollute your hearing with them.”

  Cynthia murmured, “Imogen was right.”

  “What?”

  “Lady Imogen Bainbridge. She was just here. She said that there would be a scandal, that her brother would be forced to ask for my hand.”

  “He will be. He cannot possibly avoid it and maintain his reputation, or that of his sisters. And Gillian, the younger sister, is to have her come-out in little more than a month.”

  “I cannot marry him, Clarissa. When I told you last year that I would never marry, I meant it. I could not deceive him, or anyone, in that way. What’s more, it would please my father far too much if I were the Duchess of Danforth.”

  Clarissa smiled wryly. “Must everything be about him? Perhaps the surest way to spite him is to be happy, Cynthia.”

  “Who says marriage to the Duke of Danforth would make me happy?”

  “It would certainly get you out of this house, away from his venom. You would never have to see Roger Endersby again if you did not wish to. You could cut him from your life completely.”

  “But at what cost? Truly, to hurt him at the expense of innocents...I could not do it, Clarissa. I simply could not bear it.”

  “The Duke of Danforth is hardly innocent in this situation,” Clarissa said.

  “I suppose not.”

  “You must consider it, at least. The story will be all over town by tomorrow morning. If you marry him, I will support you in society, and so will Anders. There are many others who would stand beside you, too. Not everyone is as stuck-up as your father and mine gave us to believe.”

  “But not Viscount Sidney,” Cynthia said, remembering the events that had prompted the duke’s strange behavior. “I don’t think he would lend his support.”

  Clarissa frowned. “I do not know what happened between them,” she said. “Something about a house party and one of Leo’s sisters. But if it was the twin I’m thinking of, I have a decent notion that the duke was less at fault than Leo believes.”

  “Still, I cannot imagine that even the assistance of the Earl and Countess of Stowe would help him weather the storm should he take me as a bride.”

  “Give him a little more credit than that,” Clarissa said. “Think about what I said, Cynthia. It would not be the worst thing, to escape from your father’s clutches and gain a worthy husband in the bargain. It might be the making of you. I know it was for me.”

  Then she kissed Cynthia’s cheek and was gone. For a long time after she had departed, Cynthia sat on the sofa, one hand on her cheek, lost in thought.

  “Are you going out tonight?” her father asked later as she picked at her supper. “Will you see the duke?”

  Cynthia shook her head. “I am afraid I am indisposed, Papa,” she said, not lifting her eyes from the table. “I think I will stay home and rest.”

  Her father wrinkled his nose. Illness had always been abhorrent to him, and women’s troubles especially so. He would never press her about such a thing, which was exactly what Cynthia was counting on. After supper she escaped up to her room and hid there for the rest of the evening.

  Barney Goring was the first to ask. “Are you going to offer for the chit?” he drawled as Charles wandered into the salon at Lady Jack’s that evening.

  Charles stared at him. Was this really how it would happen, with Barney Goring spreading idle gossip? “I can’t imagine what you mean,” he said, taking a seat near Jacqueline. She was watching him with interest, he noticed.

  “Miss Endersby.” Barney was like a dog on a bone. “Have you been to see her exalted Papa yet?”

  Charles shook his head, biting back the remark that sprung to his lips: that he had no intention of visiting the Endersby household any time in the near future.

  “It’s all over town, Bain,” Lord Cartwright, a pompous Tory with dark, thinning hair and small, beady eyes put in. “They’re saying you and the girl have been meeting clandestinely at Danforth House.”

  Charles leveled his best withering stare at Cartwright. “I could hardly have been meeting her clandestinely, Cartwright. I have two sisters and a houseful of staff buzzing around at all hours.”

  Goring shrugged. “All the same, Bain, it’s being widely circulated.”

  Jacqueline made an almost unnoticeable gesture, and from the shadows a servant appeared, leaning down to whisper something in her mistress’s ear—or appearing to whisper, at least. Charles had to admire Jacqueline’s carefully choreographed operation. “Ah, gentleman,” she said. “There are refreshments in the card room.”

  “Come on,” Cartwright said. Barney rose lazily and followed him out. It was only when they were gone that Charles stood and went to sit closer to his half-sister.

  “It’s true, Charles,” she said softly, smiling at him with false adoration. It was quite convincing. He leaned in closer. “Everyone is saying you’ve taken liberties with the girl, and even if you haven’t, it won’t be long before her reputation is thoroughly sullied.”

  He put his head in his hands. “This has all gotten out of hand very quickly,” he said.

  “Did you imagine it wouldn’t? You are not simply an heir any longer, Charles, and you know how visible your every action was when your father still lived. Now you are the Duke of Danforth. There are few men in the country who are your equal in either rank or wealth. Everything you do is noticed, every move you make painstakingly recorded. It was in at least three scandal sheets this morning, and I’m sure by tomorrow it will be even more widely known. She is ruined, Charles, and she has no recourse. What do you think her father will say when he hears such rumors?”

  “Good Lord,” he muttered. “I shall have to do something. I wish to God Imogen had never suggested the girl.”

  “Suggested her?” Jacqueline asked, raising one brow delicately in much the same manner Gillian had earlier in the day. Charles was struck for a moment by how similar the notorious courtesan was to his full sisters.

  He told Jacqueline everything, starting with his initial decision to take up his father’s seat and ending with their encounter in the Farrington’s ballroom. He did not even leave out the real reason behind his argument with Leo. When he had finished she sat silently for a moment, one perfectly manicured nail tapping against her lips as she considered what
he had said.

  “That is certainly not the strangest tale I have ever heard,” she said at length, “but it is close. Oh, Charles, what a muddle. But there is only one important fact in the whole thing.”

  “What is that?”

  “She is a gently bred young lady. Her reputation will be tarnished because of you.”

  “That sounds like two facts,” Charles said, grinning wryly.

  She pursed her lips. “Two facts that lead to one inevitable conclusion: you must marry her.”

  Charles swore.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Jacqueline said, not batting an eyelash at his vulgarity. “I had hoped to see you marry for love, Charles. Your heart is too carefully protected to be easily touched, and it has been my fervent wish that you would find happiness in your marriage.”

  “Who says we won’t be happy?”

  She shook her head sadly. “You will not, not without love. And from what you have told me of Miss Endersby, neither will she.” Charles sighed and rose. Jacqueline reached out her hand and took his. “You must not come here again after you have married her, Charles. You must put every effort into making this work. You cannot be visiting the house of a courtesan, not while you are trying to make a woman love you.”

  “Jacqueline, I—”

  She held up a hand to silence him. “No. Under no circumstances are you to return here. You have been good to me, and you have done your best. There is nothing more to say. Thank you, Charles, and goodbye.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. Then he let go of her hand. “Goodbye,” he said. Then he went into the hall, waited for his coat and hat, and strode out into the cold night air.

  NINE

  January 12, 1834

  In her dream, Cynthia was dancing with the duke again. The floor was empty save for the two of them, and she was wearing a thin, filmy nightdress. She could feel the heat of his fingers through the fine fabric. He was fully clothed in impeccable black, his hazel eyes bright with mirth. He was laughing at her as he spun her around the floor, and suddenly she could see a thousand nameless faces surrounding them, watching them. The faces began to laugh, too. Cynthia felt her face burning with shame. She looked up at the duke, feeling hot tears stinging her eyes even in her sleep. “Did you really think you could escape?” he demanded, and then his mouth dropped to hers in a punishing kiss.

  The door to her room crashed open. Startled out of her sleep, Cynthia sat up, clutching the coverlet to her chest, blinking at the morning brightness filling the room.

  Her father stood at the foot of her bed, clutching a piece of paper in his hand. His face was very red.

  “Get up,” he snarled.

  She stared at him. Was she still dreaming?

  He rushed over to her and grabbed her arm, hauling her out of the bed. She gasped at the pain of his thick fingers pressing into her skin—he had never touched her before that she could recall. “You harlot!” her father screamed, shaking her so hard her teeth rattled. Then, as if even touching her was distasteful to him he released her, letting go her arm so forcefully that she fell to the floor. “You are a whore after all, just like your mother.” Still she said nothing. She was too frightened to speak. He towered over her, and she shrunk back against the bed. He threw the paper in her face. “I thought you understood what your purpose was,” he growled. “I did my best, girl, heaven knows I did. But you are just as weak as that hussy who birthed you.”

  “I don’t understand,” she finally managed.

  “Look at it,” he shrieked, one finger pointing to the paper that now lay in her lap. She picked it up. It was the scandal sheet, and there right at the top was her name, printed several times. She saw the words “scandalous”, “fallen”, and “clandestine” before he ripped the paper from her hands, crumpling it into a ball. “You are ruined,” he hissed, his face turning purple. “How can you possibly achieve the purpose for which you were so carefully raised when you are damaged goods?”

  She shook her head, blinking back tears. She felt as though she were twelve years old again. I am an enlightened human being, she told herself, but it didn’t seem to help. “I—I—” she stammered, not sure what to say, what to do to make him stop.

  “Who will marry you now, hussy that you are? The Duke of Danforth certainly won’t, after you’ve embarrassed him like this. All my hard work, all that effort for nothing. The great experiment has failed, and so have you.”

  She could feel her lip trembling. “What must I do?” she asked.

  “If you cannot convince this duke to make right what has happened, you will have to leave this house within the week. I want nothing more to do with you. I wish only never to be troubled again by the thought of you,” he said.

  She nodded grimly. She knew he meant it.

  “I will give you until Sunday,” he ground out between his teeth. “I am going up to Oxford in an hour for the Philosopher’s Symposium, and I will not return until Saturday. If you have nothing to report by the following morning, I will expect your bags to be packed, and you can starve in the streets for all I care.” He turned and marched towards the door. But just as his fingers found the knob he paused, not looking back at her. “You could have been a duchess. I never thought you would turn out to be such a disappointment,” he said.

  Then he was gone.

  Moments later Ellen was there, closing the door behind her. “Oh, Miss,” she whispered, and she fell to her knees on the floor beside her. Cynthia clutched at her nightgown to stop her fingers trembling. Ellen put out a hand, touching her shoulder gently. That was all it took for Cynthia to dissolve into uncontrollable sobs. Ellen put her arms around her, holding her tightly until she stopped shaking. “It will be all right, Miss,” Ellen said. “The duke is an honorable man. You can trust him to do the right thing.”

  Cynthia wiped at her cheeks. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said.

  Charles sat in his carriage outside the stately townhouse in Cavendish Square, reminding himself to take deep breaths. He had been sitting in this spot for at least fifteen minutes. He could not make himself get out of the carriage.

  He had practiced what he would say to Mr. Endersby the whole way here, and he had been rehearsing it since the carriage stopped. There was simply no good way to say, “I have ruined your only child, and now I would like to take her away from you forever.”

  All this over one dance.

  This morning he had gone riding down Rotten Row with Beresford, and every man they passed had stopped his horse and stared. James Altington had ridden up and said, “You had better do the right thing, Danforth,” and then trotted away without another word. Beresford had stared after him and then let out that low whistle Charles so detested.

  “You’re in trouble now, man,” he declared. “What are you planning to do?”

  Charles sighed. “Marry the girl, of course.”

  “No! You can’t mean it!” Beresford looked genuinely stunned. “She’s...well, she’s a nobody, Bain.”

  “She is an intelligent, respectable young lady, and what’s more, she is beautiful and poised. She is eminently better suited to be a duchess than many of the empty-headed flirts out there.”

  Beresford stared at him. “You really mean to do it. Well, better you than me, old chap. Best of luck to you.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said. “I think I shall need it.”

  Then they parted and Charles rode for home. When he arrived, it was to find Imogen and Gillian both waiting for him in the library.

  “Charles, you idiot,” Gillian said when he came in, “what have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Gilly,” Imogen hissed.

  “No, it’s all right,” he said. “I have been an idiot. But I mean to remedy the situation, and I mean to do it today.”

  “You are going to offer for her,” Imogen said.

  He nodded.

  “Oh, Charles!” Gillian cried. “I think that’s the most romantic thing I have ever heard!” And she threw her
arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. Over the top of her head he saw Imogen roll her eyes.

  “It is not even remotely romantic,” Imogen insisted when Gillian had released him. “But it is honorable. I am proud of you, Charles. You are saving Miss Endersby from a fate I don’t think you would wish on any woman of your acquaintance.” She gave him a pointed look, and he knew she was thinking of Jacqueline. But there was a distinct difference between Jacqueline and Miss Cynthia Endersby: Charles’s half-sister had chosen to be ruined, had made the decision to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Among the other things Charles had learned after his father’s death was that John Bainbridge had arranged for his natural daughter to be placed with a respectable family in the country and introduced to society as a genteel young lady, but that Jacqueline had refused.

  Miss Endersby did not have the luxury of making such a choice. It was either marry him or be forever cut off from polite society. And unfortunately Charles would not put it past her to make the wrong choice.

  “When will you go to her?” Gillian asked.

  “This afternoon, as soon as it is a decent hour for visiting,” he said. “I will go to the bishop for a special license immediately afterwards. Somehow I don’t think Miss Endersby would want a large church wedding.”

  “I will write to mother and tell her what has happened.”

  “No, Imogen. I think it would behoove us to wait until she has said yes,” Charles said.

  Gillian laughed. “How could she say anything else?”

  Imogen and Charles both said, “Easily.”

  Now Charles was sitting in the street outside her house, willing himself to get up and do what must be done to save his family’s good name.

  It took Cynthia a while to prepare herself to go downstairs, and then she waited in her room until her father had gone. Mallory came up to inform her of her father’s departure, his face carefully set but his voice betraying his concern.

  “Really, Mallory,” Cynthia said, “it’s all right.”