The Autumn Bride

by Anne Gracie

  She should have trusted him sooner.

  “What’s the matter, Abby?” Daisy asked her. “I thought you’d be pleased as punch.”

  “Oh, I am, I surely am.” She smiled at Daisy. “I was just thinking. . . .”

  “About the other places Mort has connections with?” Daisy said. “Don’t worry; I told ’em about them too.”

  “Other places?”

  “Didn’t you know? He moves girls on to other places after he’s had ’em a while. Variety and all that. But I told them magistrates all about it, everything I know.”

  “Daisy, that’s wonderful. You’re a heroine, you know.”

  Daisy blushed. “Aw, get on with yer, Abby.” She laughed. “You know, I used to be scared stiff of magistrates, but now . . .” She winked. “Without the wigs and the robes and fancy stuff, they’re just old blokes, ain’t they?” She ate the last bit of crust and wiped her mouth. “You know, I was thinking, if Mort hada left things the way his ma run the place, everyone there of their own free will . . .”

  “If he had, would you have left?” Damaris asked curiously.

  Daisy considered it. “Maybe. I dunno.” She picked up a glass of champagne. “At any rate, I’m bloody glad I am where I am now. Who’da thought Daisy Smith’d be hobnobbin’ with lords and ladies and takin’ tea and cake with magistrates. And drinking champagne.” She laughed and raised her glass again, and they all laughed with her and drank another toast.

  Abby drank too. Her smiles were genuine, but she couldn’t quite relax. Where was Lord Davenham, and what was he doing?

  * * *

  Max had had a busy day. He’d also had an epiphany. There were times in life when it seemed the heavens opened up and a ray of light shone down in a particular way and you suddenly saw everything more clearly than you ever had before, he reflected.

  He’d had just such an insight when he realized how close to utter disaster Abby had been—and on more than one occasion. Brothels, sister at death’s door, climbing up to his aunt’s bedroom—twice! It couldn’t be allowed to continue. And he knew just what to do.

  A policy of a lifetime destroyed in an instant. What was more, he had no qualms about it.

  He knocked on the door of the hotel room and waited. And waited. It wasn’t late, not even seven o’clock. Had the Parsloes gone out for dinner?

  He raised his hand to knock again when a woman’s voice said, “Who’s there?”

  “Lord Davenham.”

  “One moment, please.”

  It was rather more than a minute when the door was opened by a maidservant. Behind her stood Henrietta, still dressed in day clothes, looking apprehensive.

  “Good evening, Miss Parsloe, is your father in?”

  “Papa has gone out to a meeting.”

  Damn. Still, what he had to say concerned her even more than her father. “May I come in? I have something important to tell you.”

  She exchanged a nervous glance with her maid. “I . . . I suppose so. But would you not prefer to come back tomorrow, when Papa will be here?”

  “I will come back tomorrow, but first I need to talk to you,” Max said firmly, and stepped inside. The maid looked out into the corridor and then closed the door.

  “What did you want?” Henrietta seemed edgy, but quite composed.

  “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll be blunt,” Max said. “I’ve come to call off the wedding.”

  Her china blue eyes widened. “Papa said you’d never go back on your promise.”

  “I know. But I find I must. I am sorry for the upset this will cause you and your father, but I cannot marry you, Henrietta.”

  A thoughtful frown marred the smooth brow. “I see.”

  Max had braced himself for tears, recriminations, anger, even hysteria, but this calm acceptance baffled him. He said it again to be certain she understood. “I’m not going to marry you, Henrietta; do you understand?”

  There was a flash of something in her eyes, some expression he did not quite catch, but all she said was, “I understand. But you haven’t told Papa yet?”

  “No, not yet.” Did she imagine that her father would somehow be able to make him marry her; was that why she hadn’t reacted? He supposed in Henrietta’s world Papa made everything happen.

  “Then will you promise me something?” she asked.

  For whatever his promises were worth now. “What?” he asked cautiously.

  “Will you wait until tomorrow to tell Papa you don’t want to marry me?”

  It was a small enough request. “Of course, if that’s what you want.” He supposed she wanted time to compose herself. Though she seemed quite composed to him already. She’d taken the news quite extraordinarily well, in fact. She hadn’t even asked why.

  “It is what I want.” She held out her hand to him. “Thank you, Lord Davenham. Good-bye.” Quite as if it were an ordinary call.

  Bemused, Max took his leave. He ran down the staircase at the Pulteney feeling surprisingly lighthearted. He’d just broken his word, broken the principle of a lifetime. His honor was in the dust and yet he felt . . . wonderful.

  Parsloe would be furious, of course, but Max didn’t care. A weight had lifted off his shoulders. Breaking his word was wrong; yet at the deepest level of his soul, he knew this was the right thing to do.

  Outside the hotel, he breathed deeply of the brisk evening breeze. He wasn’t going to marry Henrietta Parsloe. He wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

  He wanted to go home to Berkeley Square, to Abby, but he couldn’t tell her, couldn’t begin to court her properly until he’d settled things with Henry Parsloe. Only then could he come to her free and clear.

  He’d planned it all out in his head when he’d had his epiphany—first tell the Parsloes, then tell Abby and see if he could read anything in her reaction to give him hope. And then tell the rest of the world, Aunt Bea, for a start—and wouldn’t she crow? He smiled thinking of it.

  But he couldn’t tell Henry Parsloe till tomorrow, which meant he couldn’t tell anyone. He went to his club and found Freddy there. For the first time in nine years he was free, but he couldn’t even tell Freddy.

  The two friends got quietly and companionably drunk.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I will be calm. I will be mistress of myself.”

  —JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

  “Letter for you, Miss Abby.” Featherby presented the silver salver.

  “For me?” Abby glanced at the door—Lord Davenham would be down for breakfast shortly. She was nervous as a cat, waiting to see how he would treat her after the revelations of the day before.

  She picked up the letter without much curiosity. Someone from the literary society, she supposed. Good-quality paper and addressed in a neat copperplate hand. Addressed—oh, my God—to Miss Abigail Chantry, and at the Berkeley Square address. And she’d seen that handwriting before, on a letter that was blank inside.

  “How did this get here?” she asked Featherby.

  “Pushed under the door this morning, miss. I did wonder when I saw how it was addressed—nobody else has seen it.”

  Abby broke open the wafer seal. This letter was not blank inside. Far from it.

  To Miss Abigail Chantry and the filthy Whores she calls her sisters—

  “Good morning, Miss Chance. Abby,” a deep voice said from the doorway. “I’m sorry; did I startle you?”

  “N—Good morning, Lord Davenham.” Abby folded the letter hastily and slipped it into her sleeve. “Daisy told us what you did yesterday. It’s wonderful news.”

  “Daisy? Oh, that. Yes.”

  Featherby glided in with a fresh pot of steaming coffee.

  “And he, Mort, is truly in prison?”

  Featherby hovered, tidying the dishes on the buffet.

  “Yes, and further investigations are being made into the system whereby girls such as Jane and Damaris were abducted. He’ll hang, you know.”

  Abby thought of all the girls w
hose lives Mort had ruined. “Good.”

  Lord Davenham looked at Featherby, who was now tidying the toast. “That will be all, Featherby.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” He sent Abby an apologetic look and left.

  A short silence followed. Lord Davenham fiddled with the saltcellar, turning it around and around in his big hands. Abby was uncomfortably aware of the vile letter in her sleeve. Who would send such a thing to her?

  “Do you have any plans for this afternoon, Abby?” It was the second time he’d called her Abby. What did it mean? Was it a friendly kind of Abby, or did it signal a loss of respect?

  She swallowed. “There’s no meeting of the literary society this afternoon, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then I’d be obliged if you’d be available for, er, a discussion at three o’clock.”

  A discussion? What did that mean? Did he want her to talk to magistrates, as Daisy had done? Give evidence? But why her and not Jane? “Yes, of course.”

  The front doorbell jangled and Abby jumped nervously. Who would call at this hour? The letter up her sleeve. Abby felt cold, ill.

  Lord Davenham gave her a searching glance. “Are you unwell?”

  She forced a smile. “Just a slight headache.”

  “Abby . . .” He reached a hand toward her, then looked around and said in quite a different tone, “Yes? What is it, Featherby?”

  “Someone to see you, m’lord.”

  “Get rid of him.” He turned back to Abby.

  “It is Mr. Parsloe, m’lord, not looking very happy, I might say.”

  “Blast!” He gave Abby an apologetic look. “I’ll have to speak to him. Three o’clock then?”

  Abby nodded. The moment he’d gone she pulled the letter out of her sleeve and began reading.

  To Miss Abigail Chantry and the filthy Whores she calls her sisters—

  Somehow the elegant copperplate writing made the words more horrible.

  Did you think you could pass yourselves off in society as Decent Women? Whores from the lowest Brothel in London?

  What do you think will be said of Lady Beatrice Davenham when it is known she claimed Filthy Whores as her nieces? She will be reviled, scorned—at best a Laughingstock, at worst, a Pariah. The ton does not like to be made Fools of. All those Ladies who come to your so-called Literary Society—do you think they will forgive the old lady for making them Fawn and Dote on Whores? For causing their Innocent Daughters to befriend you and their Sons to buzz around you like flies buzz around Rotten Meat? And what will they say of Lord Davenham, who keeps Whores under his roof? Who knows what Depraved Appetites he picked up in his years in the East?

  You have until tomorrow to be gone from London, never to show your faces in the city again. If you remain, All of Society will be told exactly who and what you are. Proud Lady Beatrice will be too ashamed to show her face in public again, and Lord Davenham’s honor will be in the dust.

  The writing blurred before her eyes, but Abby continued to stare blindly at the letter. Who could have sent her this vile thing? Someone who knew her, knew her sisters and the life they lived here with Lady Beatrice. Someone who attended the literary society? The thought that it might be from someone who was pretending to be their friend sent her stomach churning.

  She dragged her gaze off the elegant writing and with trembling hands refolded the letter. She felt nauseous, numb . . . frozen.

  Her cup of tea sat at her elbow, cold now; she drank it all down, then poured herself another cup. It too was cold, and appropriately bitter. Slowly the numbness turned to something resembling calm. Yes, the letter was disgusting in its filthy interpretation of events, but really, did it make such a difference?

  Didn’t she know this day would eventually come? They’d been living under false names, masquerading in society as Lady Beatrice’s nieces and hiding their pasts. And as all masquerades must, at some stage the masks had to be removed. It was a delusion to think otherwise.

  It had come earlier than expected, and had happened in a horrible way, but there was an inevitability about it that she couldn’t deny. No matter how much she wanted to.

  They’d planned to leave before Lord Davenham’s marriage anyway. And perhaps it would be easier to leave now, she told herself. At least she wouldn’t have to endure watching—and assisting with—the preparations for his wedding.

  Lady Beatrice would be upset, and would be bound to insist they stay, but she was shrewd enough to know, deep down, that it couldn’t last, that it was, at best, a delightful pretense, a game that they’d all enjoyed.

  And because it had been so wonderful, these weeks of pretending they were all one big, happy family, Abby had to ensure that their time together wasn’t poisoned by the aftermath. Lady Beatrice had been kindness itself to Abby and her sisters, and so had her nephew in the end, and Abby would not . . . could not repay their generosity with scandal and humiliation and disgrace.

  From the very beginning they’d planned to go to Bath. They didn’t have enough money to go on as they’d hoped, or the range of clothing they needed for Jane to make a splash, but when she looked back at the desperate poverty they’d experienced before she’d climbed through Lady Beatrice’s window, she was almost ashamed of herself for quibbling.

  They were a great deal better off, materially and in many other ways; living with Lady Beatrice and mixing with her tonnish friends had given them a degree of social polish they otherwise wouldn’t have.

  Of course, they’d miss the old lady dreadfully. And Abby would miss—No, better not even think such things, she told herself fiercely. She wouldn’t miss seeing him married to Henrietta Parsloe.

  The thought was like a cold lump of iron in her chest.

  There was no choice. Somehow she had to marshal the courage to leave, to pull herself together and do what she had to do. For the sake of them all, she had to be strong.

  Desperately trying to overcome the cold desolation that filled her, she gradually became aware of voices raised in the entry hall. On legs that felt quite spongy, she walked to the doorway and looked out.

  “It’s your fault, I tell you!” Mr. Parsloe was waving a letter at Lord Davenham. Her throat froze at the sight of the letter. Had it started already? No, there was no reason for the writer of her letter, whoever it was, to write to Mr. Parsloe. Still, she had to be sure. She crept closer.

  “Run off, damn you, run off with my own damned secretary! And him the younger son of a clergyman—what use is that, I ask you? Poor as church mice!”

  Thank God, it wasn’t about them at all.

  Lord Davenham was trying to soothe him, speaking in a low voice. Abby couldn’t catch what he was saying.

  Mr. Parsloe wouldn’t be soothed. “A gentleman? Pah! What use is that? Does he have a title? A fortune? Connections? I cannot believe my Henrietta would be such a fool! It’s your fault, dammit—whatever you said to her yesterday has caused her to run off—it’s all here.”

  Lord Davenham’s voice rumbled again.

  “What do you mean, planned it? How could she plan it?” Mr. Parsloe spluttered. Abby moved closer.

  Of course she planned it, Max thought—you didn’t organize an elopement from London with a lad who lived in Manchester without some planning beforehand. She’d done it very neatly too. Henrietta had been ready to leave when he’d called last night, dressed in her traveling clothes, with her father away at a meeting, and nervous at Max’s arrival because her lover was expected any minute. He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts he hadn’t noticed. No wonder she hadn’t wanted him to talk to her father that night.

  “There are worse things than being married to a young, well-educated gentleman,” Max told Henry Parsloe.

  “Married? If she’s married that young sprat I . . . I’ll disinherit her! I’ll disown her!” Max heard a gasp behind him. It was Abby, her face white and set, her eyes glittering.

  Parsloe, unaware of the audience, ranted on. “They’ll rue the day they flouted Henry Parsloe’
s wishes.” He smacked Henrietta’s note angrily. “‘Love more important than money’? Ha! I wish them joy of their poverty then! Let them beg in the streets; let them starve in their hovel. See how they like life without Henry Parsloe’s money—they’ll come crawling back soon enough, but it will be too—”

  “How dare you!” Abby, her voice throbbing with anger, stepped forward.

  “Eh?” Parsloe swiveled around to look at her.

  “How dare you speak of your only daughter like that! How dare you wish her ill! It’s . . . it’s an obscene thing for a father to say!”

  Parsloe looked down his nose at her. “Eh? What’s it to you?”

  Abby raged on. “I thought you loved your daughter!” She poked him in the chest with an angry finger. “You were as proud as punch of her when you came calling before—or was that a lie; was it? Are you really such a shallow popinjay of a man, the kind of petty humbug whose love is conditional, Manchester’s answer to King Lear—”

  “King who?” He looked at Max.

  “—whose vanity is more important than the happiness and welfare of his daughter—his only child. Shame on you, Mr. Parsloe. Shame on you!”

  “Listen here, lass—”

  But Abby hadn’t finished. “And how dare you blame Lord Davenham—have you no finer feelings at all? How do you think he feels, being jilted by a silly little doll with no conversation?”

  “Jilted?” Henry Parsloe looked a silent question at Max, who shook his head. He’d only just told Parsloe, so of course he hadn’t spoken to Abby yet. But he wasn’t going to interrupt; he was enjoying this too much. Silly little doll with no conversation? He hid a smile.

  “Yes, jilted! You haven’t given his feelings so much as a thought, have you? Because you’re so horridly selfish you’re only concerned about yourself.”

  “Am I indeed?”

  “Yes. So think about this, Mr. Parsloe—how will you feel when you’re old and alone with no daughter to care for you and no grandchildren to gladden your last days?”