“Well, you were a bit busy. Wedding plans and all that.”
“I suppose so. But still . . .” She slapped a palm to her forehead. “How obtuse of me.”
“Everyone makes mistakes, Irene, though until Mr. Beale, I never thought you did.”
“Oh, darling, I make mistakes all the time! I’ve just tried not to let you see them. I’ve always wanted to protect you. Speaking of which,” she added before Clara could reply, “why didn’t you ever cable me and tell me of your difficulties? I’d have come home at once.”
“I know, and that’s just why I didn’t do it. You deserved every minute of that trip, and I wasn’t going to deprive you of it. And,” she added before her sister could reply, “the funny thing is that even as hard as I’ve been working, and as scary as taking this on has been for me, it’s been rather fun, too. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m really starting to enjoy it—being in charge, making the decisions, exercising my own judgement.”
Irene grinned. “Fun, isn’t it? Still, I’m astonished at all these changes in you. You’re quite transformed, Clara, really. But . . .” Irene paused, her grin fading as she leaned forward across the desk to put a hand on Clara’s forearm. “If there is a baby, we shall have to consider carefully what that will mean and what to do.”
Clara nodded, appreciating that it was time to put aside procrastination, and prepare for the worst, just in case. “Because I shan’t be able to do both, you mean?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that. If you gave the child up, of course you could work here at the paper. In fact, since no one knows what happened between you and Galbraith, your life could pretty much go on as before.”
“My life will never be what it was before.”
Her sister winced at that. “No, darling,” she agreed tenderly. “I don’t suppose it will. But baby or no, are you absolutely sure refusing Galbraith was the right thing to do? You’ve always wanted to be married. And you do love him.”
“But he does not love me. He admitted the fact.”
Catching sight of her sister’s scowl, she rushed on before Irene could go on a hunt for Papa’s pistol. “So, if there is no baby, I would like to carry on with the paper. If I am with child—” She paused, her voice failing, and it took her a moment before she could go on. “I would have to go abroad to have it, Irene. And if I kept it, I would have to stay abroad.”
Her sister gave a cry of dismay. “No, you wouldn’t. You could put the child with a family in the country, pay them to care for it, make it your ward, see it during holidays . . .” Her voice trailed away as Clara shook her head.
“I think we both know that wouldn’t be possible. People would eventually put two and two together and make four. I could not shame you by staying in England.”
“Nonsense,” Irene said stoutly. “You think I care about that?”
“You would have to care. You’re married now, and your husband and his position would have to be considered. He is a duke. He could not have a wayward sister-in-law and her love child living nearby, and certainly not coming to visit. And what of his sisters? Their social position has already been damaged—”
“I would never turn my back on you!” Irene interrupted fiercely. “Not even for Henry would I ever do that.”
“I know.” She paused. “And we don’t even know if there will be a child. But if there is and I decide to keep it, you will have to come abroad to visit us, without Henry.”
Irene gave a sob and caught it back. “You would be giving up everything, Clara. Your life, your future, all your hopes—” Her voice broke, and she stopped.
Watching her, Clara smiled a little. “Dearest Irene,” she murmured. “All this must be so hard for you, for you have always tried so hard to protect me. But I cannot marry a man who does not love me just to be safe and protected. And I can’t always take the easy way through life, even if a life of ease is what you want for me.”
Something in her voice, perhaps the resoluteness of it, caught her sister’s attention, for Irene pressed her lips together, and a sweet, poignant sadness came into her lovely face.
“What are you thinking?” Clara asked, watching in astonishment as a tear rolled down her sister’s cheek.
“I think . . .” Irene choked up again, then gave a little sniff and leaned forward to take her hands. “I think my little sister is all grown up.”
She wouldn’t see him.
At least twice a week, Rex called at Belford Row, only to be told by their grenadier of a housekeeper that Miss Deverill was not receiving. He tried calling at the newspaper office, but that strategy brought no greater success, for her secretary always informed him that she was busy. He tried using charm, but he must be losing his touch with the ladies, for Miss Evelyn Huish remained adamant and unimpressed, a stalwart sentry at Clara’s gate. Resisting—for the present anyway—the temptation to invade Clara’s office by force, he turned to other means of dealing with the situation.
He wrote letters. She did not reply. He sent flowers. She sent them back. He got drunk, often. It didn’t help. One night, God help him, he even found himself standing on the pavements outside the newspaper office, champagne in hand, staring through the lit windows hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He even attempted to go in, but the door, when he tried it, was locked. A good thing, probably, for all the instincts that had made him such a rake in his salad days told him that invading her privacy would only hurt his cause. Left with no other options, he was forced to wait.
He had a slew of relations and friends, and once the news spread of his marriage proposal and Clara’s rejection, all those friends and family attempted to distract him. During the seemingly endless days of summer, invitations poured in from every quarter, beckoning him to the country for hunting and house parties, but he refused them all. He had no intention of being away, should Clara write him with news of her condition or decide to take pity on him and agree to receive him.
When friends came to town, however, he was happy to spend an evening with them. Lionel he saw more often than most, but though the two of them managed an occasional game of tennis, and one rousing night of celebration in late August when he learned of Lionel’s formal engagement to Dina, Rex preferred to spend the majority of his time alone. He walked the streets of London a lot, usually places with some connection to Clara—Upper Brook Street, the sidewalk in front of Montcrieffe House, Mrs. Mott’s Tea Emporium, the newspaper office. He even returned to the spot in Hyde Park where she’d tried to launch that kite, and as he thought of her laughing with her nephews, he wondered when he would hear news of a baby. Oddly, he was sure there would be one, perhaps because he’d been prepared for that outcome from the moment he’d entered her bedroom that night at Lisle.
His father, probably in the mistaken belief that Rex’s proposal had been rejected for financial considerations, not only reinstated his estate allowance, but doubled it.
Usually, when Rex was in funds, his mother managed to learn the fact and came calling for a touch, and sure enough, only days after his father’s reinstatement of his income, his mother was at Half Moon Street asking to be received. To his surprise, however, he soon learned that money, for once, was not her reason for coming.
“Rex,” she cried, beautiful as ever as she came across his drawing room, hands outstretched in greeting. “I’ve just heard. Oh, my darling boy, is it really true, or is it just a rumor?”
“Is what true?”
“That you proposed marriage to a young lady and she refused you? It must be gossip, for no girl would ever turn you down, but my source was quite adamant—”
She stopped, and he realized something in his countenance must have given him away, for she gave a cry of dismay and yanked her hand from his, cupping it to his cheek with what he knew was genuine motherly concern. “It is true! Oh, Rex, my dear.”
He pulled out of his mother’s hold, forcing a laugh. “Only time in my life I shall ever propose to a girl, and she turns me down flat. One of life�
�s little ironies, what? And just what I deserve.”
“Nonsense. Any girl would be lucky to have you. And besides, you shall persuade her. You’re not giving up after one refusal, surely?”
“More than one, I’m afraid.” He pressed his lips together, smiling a little. “She refuses me every time she refuses to see me, Mama.”
“But why? The only reason she could have for turning you down is money, and your father reinstated your allowance—by a substantial amount, I understand.”
He sighed. “How you ferret these things out never ceases to amaze me.”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, tugging at her ear. “I have my spies,” she murmured.
“Yes, my butler, no doubt. Every time I pay him whatever back wages I owe him, I’m sure he fires off a letter. He’s a fool for you.”
“Yes, well . . .” His mother paused, smoothing her skirt and trying to look modest, but she succeeded only in looking like a contented house cat. “He is such a dear, sweet man. If he wasn’t a butler, I’m sure I’d have fallen in love with him ages ago.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” he agreed. “So, now that you’ve heard my income’s reinstated, is that why you’ve come?”
“No, no, I don’t need a penny, but it’s very sweet of you to offer.”
He hadn’t offered, but pesky little details like that always sailed right past his mother’s beautiful head. “You not in need of money?” He laughed. “My, there’s a first time for everything.”
“No, I came because I have news of my own, darling, which I shall tell you presently. But first, you must assure me that you’re not giving up on this girl you’re after.”
“Really, Mama, of all the people in the world, I’d have thought you the last one to encourage anyone to get married.”
“Nonsense. How else will you be ensured a steady income?”
“How, indeed.” He folded his arms, bracing himself. “What’s your news? But I think I can guess,” he added, noting the little smile that curved his mother’s lips “A new man, I assume?”
She heaved a dreamy sigh and pressed a hand to her bosom, confirming his theory. “And what a man he is, too. Handsome, charming, quite rich.”
“Naturally. Am I entitled to know who he is?”
“Of course! Our affair is not a secret, and even if it were, I’d tell you, for you can always keep a secret.”
He thought of the night he’d spilled secrets to Clara about his parents, himself, and how he spent his money. She was, he realized, the only person in his life who could loosen his tongue. “Not always, Mama. But carry on. Who is this new man of yours?”
“It’s Lord Newcombe. We met at Cannes in January, then again at Zurich in July, and now . . .” She paused, one that was clearly supposed to be dramatic. “I’m in love!”
“What a surprise.”
The ironic inflection of his voice seemed lost on his mother. “It was to me! Newcombe’s ten years younger than I am.”
“Newcombe?” He repeated the name, frowning a little as he began to appreciate who they were talking about. “You mean Baron Newcombe?”
“The very same.”
“You realize he’s married?”
She laughed. “So am I. What does that matter?”
“To you, it probably doesn’t.”
That dry comment earned him an unhappy sigh. “Really, Rex, I love you, but there are times when you remind me so much of your father.”
He made a sound of derision. “I’m nothing like Papa.”
“Not in looks, perhaps. And you’re much more charming than he ever was. But you do have some of his qualities. Impatience, stubbornness, cynicism, and a rather tiresome way of putting a damper on the loveliest things.”
“Things like true love?”
“Exactly! Do you know, Newcombe’s taking me around the world on his yacht? He wanted to depart straight from Calais, but I insisted on coming up to London to see you before I go. Isn’t it wonderful?” she added, clasping her hands together as if she’d just been blessed by heaven. “I shan’t have any living expenses for months!”
He sighed, knowing that when those months had passed, Mama would be here again, and he’d be drying her tears and handing over whatever cash he could spare. He thought of his father, and he thanked God that his mother was mistaken in his character, for the last thing he ever wanted to be was a brokenhearted wreck of a man who, despite years of rejection, still loved one—and only one—woman.
“Just be careful, Mama,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be silly, darling.” She smiled and rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I always land on my feet.”
A cough sounded behind them, and both he and his mother turned around to find Whistler standing in the doorway, a silver salver resting atop his fingertips, an unmistakable admiration for the countess in his eyes. “Forgive me, your ladyship,” he said, bowing, then turned to Rex. “The afternoon post, sir.”
He caught a nuance of significance in the butler’s last words, and when he shot Whistler a sharp, inquiring look, he was rewarded with a slight nod of confirmation.
At last. Relief flooded through him, and though he wanted to dash across the room and tear the letter open right then and there, he refrained, for he did not want his mother here when he read the news from Clara.
“Just put it there, would you, Whistler?” he said, working to keep his tone indifferent. Then, as the other man crossed the room to deposit his letters on the writing desk beneath the window, he turned to his mother. “I fear I must send you off, Mama, for I have an engagement and have to change.”
“Of course. I need to be toddling along anyway, for as I said, Newcombe’s awaiting me at Dover. Au revoir, my darling son.” She cupped his cheeks. “If you want this girl, don’t give up.” With that bit of rather ironic advice, she kissed him and departed, following Whistler out the door.
Rex walked to his desk, took up the letter that reposed on the top of the pile, and turned it over. There was no name on the back, but there was a return direction. No. 12 Belford Row, Holborn.
Rex swallowed hard, bracing himself, and sat down at his desk. He moved to tear the letter open with his usual impatience, but then, he changed his mind and retrieved a letter opener from the desk instead, using it to slit the envelope neatly across. Drawing a deep, shaky breath, he pulled out the single sheet of notepaper, broke the seal, and unfolded it.
Lord Galbraith,
It is now certain beyond any doubt that what you feared has not come to pass, and therefore, your obligation is discharged. I hope this letter brings you a measure of relief, and I wish nothing for your future but good fortune and happiness.
Sincerely,
C.M.D.
He stared at the lines of Clara’s prim copperplate script in disbelief. Throwing him off his trolley on a consistent basis seemed to be her special gift, but nonetheless, this was not the news he’d been expecting. He’d been sure beyond doubt there would be a baby, that his future with her was settled and inevitable, and this news left him feeling not only astonished and bewildered, but also strangely bereft.
He read the lines again. She hoped her news would bring him relief—well, that was a reasonable wish, he supposed. Most men, he thought cynically, would be dancing a jig after news like this.
He had never felt less like dancing.
He held the letter to his nose, and as he breathed in the scent of orange blossoms, he thought of that night in her office when she’d stood in his embrace and he’d shown her how to open champagne, and he suddenly realized that he might never have the chance to hold her in his arms again.
Suddenly, he saw a different future ahead of him than the one he’d lately been envisioning, a future like his past, a future without her. As his mind formed that picture, something deep inside Rex cracked and broke apart, and he realized in despair that he was more like his father than he’d ever thought possible.
He set aside the letter and lowered his face into h
is hands.
Chapter 20
“I don’t see why we have to go to Lionel Strange’s wedding,” Clara muttered for perhaps the fifth time since Torquil’s carriage had left Upper Brook Street and started toward St. John’s Church. “You don’t even know him, Irene.”
“But Henry knows him slightly, for he is an MP.”
“A tenuous connection, hardly worthy of an invitation to the man’s wedding.”
“Not really. Dukes receive invitations to everything.”
“Not your duke, not after his mother married the Italian.”
“Yes, well, even slightly tarnished, Henry’s still a duke. And since we received the invitation, I decided this wedding would be a good way for Henry and I to take our first step back into society after the Dowager’s fall.”
“But Henry isn’t with us.”
“He had another engagement, so he’s meeting us at the church.”
“It still seems quite odd that he agreed to come at all. I wouldn’t have thought a Labor MP would impress Torquil enough to receive this sort of condescension. Your duke is difficult to impress.”
“Henry’s agreed to go for my sake. Lionel Strange favors the vote for women, and I intend to bend the man’s ear at the wedding breakfast for ideas as to how we can gain more support in the Commons. Henry promised to put in a word of support as well.”
“Lovely. So why were you so insistent I attend?”
“You were included in the invitation, so it’s clear Mr. Strange and Lady Throckmorton want you to come. And why shouldn’t they? From what you told me, you are directly responsible for bringing them back together. You and Galbraith.”
“I’m surprised Rex hasn’t convinced Lionel to call it off,” Clara muttered. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance he’ll stay away?”
The Trouble with True Love (Dear Lady Truelove #2) Page 29