by M. C. Beaton
“Gently, quietly,” he said, beginning to laugh. “Sit down, Patricia, and tell me the whole business from the beginning.”
Patricia sighed and sat down. He sat down next to her on a backless sofa and took her hand in his own. Somehow, she never even thought of snatching her hand away.
So she told her story over again, but this time ended up demanding to know why Lord Charles thought Colonel Sommers such a fine chaperone since he was absent-minded, hard of hearing, and short-sighted.
“He is a man of sterling character and a very loyal friend,” said Lord Charles, but at the same time he began to wonder whether he had invited the colonel to escort Patricia simply because he knew Patricia would not fall in love with him.
To change the subject, he added, “I was distressed to see you arriving with such a fellow as Geoffrey Truebury. I trust he did not make a nuisance of himself.”
“He would have, had I not encouraged him to talk about himself.” Patricia hesitated. She had been about to say that Miss Simpkin appeared to have encouraged Mr. Truebury, but she changed her mind for fear of getting the old governess into trouble.
“What I tried to tell you,” she said, “was that Mr. Truebury proposed to me.”
“The devil he did!”
“I told him he must ask your permission first.”
“Quite right. I shall have a word with that young whipper-snapper. And Miss Simpkin, when we return home.”
“Miss Simpkin?” said Patricia taking her hand from his.
“Yes. She knows the family—or rather that awful old rip of a father. I found them together at Vauxhall.”
“I do not think Mr. Truebury needs any encouragement from anyone,” said Patricia. “He is quite capable of being pushing and obnoxious all on his own.”
“In other words, Miss Simpkin had nothing to do with it?”
“She would never do anything to harm me.”
Patricia stood up and crossed to a looking glass over the fireplace, and removed her bonnet. “What a mess I am in!” she exclaimed. “But I could have been killed, so a little death to my vanity is as nothing by comparison.”
He stood up, watching her as she teased her hair back into a fashionable style.
He slowly walked up and stood behind her. Patricia lowered her comb and looked at both their faces reflected in the glass. He put his hands on her shoulders and said, “Patricia.”
She colored and her breath began to come quick and fast.
“Patricia,” he said again, this time in a wondering voice.
He turned her about to face him. The room was quiet and still. A harpsichord stood gleaming in one corner, a shrouded harp in the other. Outside in the garden at the back of the house, away from the guests, a thrush swung on a branch heavy with lilac flowers, sending out a repetitive cascade of notes.
She looked up into his green eyes, suddenly wanting to tell him how sorry she was for the years of hate and how she had planned her revenge. But he took her face gently between his hands and bent his mouth to hers and she forgot about everything else. She felt as if she were turning slowly around as his kiss caused wave after wave of sensation to course through her body. He dropped his hands from her face and wrapped his arms tightly about her, holding her closely against him, feeling the throbbing and trembling of her body. He gave a little sigh and kissed her more deeply and with such an intensity of passion that when he finally raised his mouth, she clung to him like a drowning woman, gazing up at him with eyes blinded by emotion.
He sank to one knee in front of her and raised the hem of her dress to his lips. “No!” cried Patricia. “Do not kneel in front of me.”
He looked up and saw that her eyes were bright with tears. Patricia was thinking wretchedly of how she had dreamed of this moment, of how she would laugh at him and spurn him, but now all she wanted was to be held by him and kissed by him once more.
“You are right,” he said softly, rising to his feet and tilting her chin up. “We should not be doing this. Oh, Patricia, I am engaged to Mary Chalmers and cannot get free unless she will release me. But if she will, marry me, Patricia, for no other woman will do. I have never loved anyone else before and am not likely to love anyone else in the future as much as I love you.”
Patricia clung to him, realizing with a desperate gladness that she loved him. Surely Mary would not want to go ahead and marry a man who did not love her.
There was the sound of approaching footsteps and they jumped apart. Patricia opened her mouth to tell him that she loved him, but the door opened and Lady Blessington walked in.
“I have been looking everywhere for you, Lord Charles,” she said. “Miss Chalmers has been wondering what had become of you.”
Lady Blessington was a soft, fat woman dressed in white muslin. She looked like a pillow tied in the middle. Her eyes swiveled to Patricia. “And who is this?” she demanded.
“My ward, Miss Patterson,” said Lord Charles.
“Indeed!” Lady Blessington’s small eyes swung from one face to the other, from Patricia’s flushed and radiant one to Lord Charles’s carefully guarded mask.
“Miss Patterson had an unfortunate accident on the way here. Colonel Sommers was hurt and so he will not be joining us.”
“We heard all about the accident,” said Lady Blessington, “from dear Mr. Truebury.”
All in that moment Patricia decided she did not like Lady Blessington. Anyone who referred to Mr. Truebury as “dear” could not be a very pleasant person.
“Ah, yes, that reminds me. Truebury,” said Lord Charles. “I want a word with that young man.”
“Then come along,” said Lady Blessington. “We are about to serve breakfast.”
They followed her through the house and out onto the front lawn, where people were already seated at long tables. Lord Charles went immediately to join Mary. Patricia was left to sit between two gentlemen she did not know. But the fact that Lord Charles had said he loved her spread like a warm glow throughout her body. The world had become a beautiful and exciting place. Soon this day would be over and she and Lord Charles would be able to leave Mary and her mother at their home and then go to Cavendish Square together.
Then, as she glanced idly about, she saw with surprise Mrs. Grant with her daughters, Emily and Agnes. Emily smiled and waved, but Patricia, although she smiled back, experienced a little pang of dread. Emily and Agnes must know all about the gossip about herself and the captain. If they talked, then society would look at her with different eyes, and if she married Lord Charles they would all say it was because she had to.
Then the gentleman on her left turned and introduced himself. He was a fair and foolish young man, but extremely good-natured, and soon Patricia forgot her fears and began to enjoy herself.
After the breakfast was over, Patricia agreed to promenade with her new companion, a Mr. Naith, through the grounds. At one point, she saw Lord Charles take Mr. Truebury aside. She could not hear what they were saying, but Mr. Truebury’s face became mottled with rage.
Later, she looked across to where Lord Charles was now standing with Mary. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, her whole face becoming alight with love. Startled, Mary looked from one to the other.
Patricia quickly turned her head away, furious with herself for having betrayed her emotions so openly. Then the Misses Grant came up to her and began to ply her with questions about America. Agnes was engaged to a squire who lived near Barminster and Emily to another local worthy, and they had merely come to town for two weeks to order their wedding clothes. They did not mention the scandal, and Patricia began to relax and enjoy their company.
Chapter 7
Left to her own devices for the afternoon, Miss Sinclair decided to see if she could find anything Patricia had written to Margaret Munroe, but there was nothing at all in Patricia’s bedroom—no half-finished letter and no diary of any description.
Feeling frustrated, she began to wish she had agreed to go for that walk with Mr. Johnson and
went in search of him. He was sorting through the late post and Miss Sinclair immediately saw one letter from America addressed to Patricia.
All thoughts of going for a walk fled. “I see you have a letter for Miss Patterson, Mr. Johnson,” said Miss Sinclair. “I shall take it up to her room and leave it on her desk.”
“Thank you,” he said with a charming smile. “I shall be going out shortly. Is there no hope that you might change your mind and accompany me?”
Miss Sinclair hesitated. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. He was a pleasant and intelligent man. But then all her fury at Patricia came back into her mind and she said firmly, “Perhaps another time, Mr. Johnson. There are certain things this afternoon I must do.”
“Then I must wait and hope for another time,” he said.
Miss Sinclair picked up the letter and retreated with it upstairs to her own room.
She heated a paper knife at the fire and then gently opened the seal. The letter was from Margaret Munroe.
“Dear Patricia,” she read. “I trust you are safely arrived and all goes well with you. Our poor little Boston must seem very Drab set against the Pleasures of London. Are you proceeding with your Great Revenge? If anyone can bring your wicked guardian to his knees, it is you, Patricia. Has he knelt in front of you yet and told you he loves you—and have you spurned him? I remember all the plots and plans we discussed to bring about the ruin of the wicked Lord Charles.
“I must confess, dear Patricia, I am worried that such a kind and pleasant lady such as yourself should be so consumed with Hate. I hope our little plots and plans were merely silly Girlish Schemes and that you have done nothing to bring them to Fruition. The Sermon in Church Sunday last was about the Folly of Revenge and the Suffering it can bring on the Vengeful, and I confess I felt alarmed on your behalf. Perhaps you will not even be in London yet when this letter arrives, although I am sending it on the very next ship.
“You are much missed by all of us here. Now to the gossip of the town. ’Tis said that Mr. Devereux…”
Miss Sinclair slowly put down the letter. How dare that wicked Patricia try to ruin Lord Charles’s life! Her duty lay plain before her. She would go to the Chalmers’ house and await their return.
Had not Miss Sinclair been quite so zealous, she might have perhaps missed Mary’s return. For the breakfast was not expected to be finished until early morning. But by eight in the evening, Mary, increasingly worried about the atmosphere between Lord Charles and Patricia, declared she had the headache and wanted to leave. An orchestra had arrived and there was to be dancing indoors in the ballroom, and Mary did not want to watch Lord Charles dancing with Patricia.
It was a silent party that traveled back to town. Lord Charles was desperately wondering how to extricate himself from his engagement, Patricia was longing to be alone with him again, Mrs. Chalmers was silently blaming her daughter for being such a cold fish, and Mary could not remember being so angry since she was six years old and a visiting child took her doll away from her.
Mrs. Chalmers pressed Lord Charles to “step indoors” when they arrived; pointedly ignoring Patricia. But Lord Charles felt he could not bring matters to a head at that moment and he knew he would be honor-bound to do so if he sent Patricia home on her own and joined Mary and her mother.
He reminded Mary of her “terrible headache” and said he would call on her the next morning since he had something important to discuss with her.
Mrs. Chalmers noticed how Patricia’s face lit up as he said this, and her heart sank.
When Patricia entered the house in Cavendish square, Lord Charles said gently, “I do not trust myself to be alone with you, my love, until I have settled matters with Mary. Leave me before I forget I am an engaged man.”
Patricia smiled at him tremulously and then went lightly up the stairs to her room, elated and happy.
Lord Charles had just settled down in front of the fire in the library to read his correspondence when his butler came in to say that a footman had arrived from Miss Chalmers with an urgent message demanding his lordship’s immediate presence.
He put down his letters and sighed wearily. Well, if he had to face her, perhaps it would be better to resolve things as soon as possible.
When he arrived at the Chalmers’ house and was ushered into the drawing room, he raised his eyebrows in surprise to find Miss Sinclair sitting with Mary and her mother.
“I am glad you are come,” said Mary at her most stately. “Miss Sinclair, this good and kind creature, has seen fit to open and read this letter.”
She held it out to him. “Dear Patricia,” read Lord Charles. “This is disgraceful!” he exclaimed. “You have overstepped yourself, Miss Sinclair!”
“You must read on,” said Mary calmly, “and you will find out why it was important to open it.”
Lord Charles read quickly through the first few paragraphs. Then he sat down and read slowly through them again.
He felt a black weight of grief and loss growing inside him. He had long been sure that the only interest he held for pretty young debutantes was his title and fortune. Patricia was a wealthy heiress and could marry a duke if she pleased. He had been so sure she really loved him. He should have known better.
Miss Sinclair shrank back in her chair as he raised his eyes. They were like emerald chips. “I still say you had no right to open this letter, Miss Sinclair,” he said. “Eavesdroppers, it is said, never hear any good of themselves, and Paul Prys cause pain and damage.
“You will go to Cavendish Square and tell Mr. Johnson you are dismissed. I am not a vindictive man, so the pension I promised you will still be paid to you. Nor am I going to turn you out into the street until you have found somewhere to stay. If you have no relatives to go to, then ask Mr. Johnson to find you lodgings as soon as possible.”
Miss Sinclair began to cry, hiccupping and sobbing that she had only been doing her duty.
“Lord Charles, how can you be so harsh?” cried Mary. “Miss Sinclair may stay with me.” She put an arm about the sobbing governess. “Come—I will show you to your room and Lord Charles may send your baggage.”
There was a heavy silence after they had left the room. Mrs. Chalmers opened her mouth several times to say something, but Lord Charles was studying the letter again, his face grim and set.
After what seemed an age, Mary came in again looking flushed and triumphant.
“Poor Miss Sinclair is quite overset,” she said. “I made her a hot posset and got her to lie down.”
“Leave us,” said Lord Charles quietly to Mrs. Chalmers. She hesitated, looking at her daughter. Lord Charles got to his feet and went and silently held open the door.
Mrs. Chalmers scurried past him, her head bowed.
“Now, Mary,” said Lord Chalmers, “I feel you encouraged that silly woman in her folly.”
“And rightly,” said Mary calmly, “as it turns out. You were about to make a cake of yourself over your ward.”
“Mary,” he said, “have you never thought I might stray from you through the longing to hold a woman in my arms?”
The triumphant look left Mary’s face and she took a step back from him. “There will be plenty of time for that after we are married,” she said.
He felt cold rage burning inside him. Mary would not even pretend to care for him, and Patricia had made a fool of him.
“Then you had better get used to me,” he said grimly.
He caught her to him and forced his mouth down on hers. When he finally released her cold lips, she was trembling and shaken and staring at him as if he had just raped her.
Lord Charles gave a harsh laugh at the mixture of disgust and fright on her face. “That was only a beginning,” he said. “Only think, dear Mary, of the pleasures of the marriage bed.”
“You have spoiled everything,” said Mary after she had scrubbed her mouth with her handkerchief. “I thought we would go on as we were—you and I and Mama. We were so comfortable before
that Patricia creature arrived.”
“And I thought Mrs. Chalmers was always present because you asked her to be there! Tell me, Mary, did you expect to remain a virgin even after our marriage?”
She simply stood looking at him, her face working.
“And to think I was worried about your feelings,” he said with deep disgust. “Madam, will you send the notice of the termination of our engagement to the newspapers, or will I?”
“I will,” said Mary. “You are a beast.”
Lord Charles left without looking back. He was in a murderous mood and was afraid that if he returned home immediately he would do something to Miss Patricia Patterson that he would regret for the rest of his life. He took himself off to his club to clear his head. But he started to drink to calm himself down and the more he drank, the more bitter and furious he became.
Patricia had been unable to sleep for excitement. She longed to share her happiness with someone but felt she had no right to until matters with Mary were resolved. She kept running to her bedroom window every time she heard carriage wheels, hoping to see Lord Charles return, only to sit down again, disappointed.
At last she prepared for bed, and, sitting down at the dressing table, began to brush out her hair, remembering how odd and short it had been when she had first tried to wear it à la Brutus.
She heard the rumble of wheels on the cobbles below and ran to the window again.
Lord Charles was springing down from the box of his carriage, his face set and grim.
He strode into the house and a moment later Patricia heard him mounting the stairs.
She sat down again, her heart beating hard, longing to run to him.
Then she looked up in alarm as the door of her bedroom swung open.
Lord Charles leaned against the door jamb, looking at her, his green eyes blazing. His black hair was ruffled as if he had run his hands through it.
“Well, you slut,” he said. “What have you to say to this?”