Simon left with a devastating smile and another invitation for Willa and a promise to return soon for Ren. Once they’d left earshot of the room, Simon stopped Nathaniel in the hall. “I have something you should see.” He pulled a news sheet from his coat pocket. “Feebles brought this in this morning.”
Nathaniel opened it and groaned. The Voice of Society was back, and it knew all about the incident with Finster.
Who is the mystery lady who so fiercely defends England’s most hated son, Lord Treason? Sources have it that she is nothing other than Reardon’s broomstick bride from the country! If she doesn’t know who she married, one wonders if she can read. Do you think she is adjusting well to wearing shoes?
Fury coursed through Nathaniel. “Shoes? That self-abusing bastard!”
“Still don’t think the Voice is a top priority, Cobra?” Simon’s smile was very nearly vicious. “He called Agatha ‘The Chimney Sweep’s Doxy.’ That’s nearly as bad.” He took the news sheet back and read it again. “No, I think I still win.”
The man hiding out in the shabby room held the news sheet in hands that trembled in rage.
Lord Treason’s broomstick bride.
Reardon had beaten him to the girl and likely to the item as well. How the hell had Reardon become a player in this? He was flaunting her, taking her about town, spending money on her.
Reardon wanted him to see. Wanted him to know he had the advantage, that he had his hands all over the bloody political prize of the decade!
Whatever side Reardon was on these days, he was a loose end that needed tying up.
Immediately.
17
Willa was very curious about seeing the Bishop. Nathaniel didn’t speak at all on the carriage ride over, but Willa didn’t allow his silence to disturb her. The Bishop believed he could talk her out of wedding Nathaniel. The man had no idea he was too late as far as Willa was concerned.
Once they were inside, the halls of the abbey were very fine. Nathaniel let her go with a squeeze of her hand. She followed her escort, trying not to crane her neck too obviously as she was led through the halls by a novitiate. The young man stopped at a large door and knocked twice before sliding the heavy oak door to one side. It disappeared into a pocket hidden within the wall. Willa coveted the design at once. Imagine doing away with the swinging of hinges entirely!
Then her attention was captured by the enormous desk that seemed anchored in the center of the grand room like a fine ship on a sea of carpet. The Bishop stood as she entered. Willa took his extended hand and bent to kiss the ring there. She’d never had occasion to greet a Bishop before, but she would not let her mother’s teachings down.
The Bishop indicated a seat opposite his own. Willa took it gingerly. It was a low sort of chair that made her feel rather small before the man looming behind the desk. To keep from sinking farther down, Willa sat primly on the front edge and sat as tall as she was able. This put her nearly on eye level with the Bishop, although she suspected his chair was much higher than hers.
He was a stout man; she could tell even through his heavy robes. His face was round and pink behind his white mustache and sideburns, and his cap did little to conceal the fact that most of his hair was on his face. He didn’t seem kindly, but he did not seem frightening, either, so Willa allowed herself to relax, although not enough to sink into the chair.
“Miss Trent—” the Bishop began.
Willa raised her hand promptly, straight into the air like a good student. The Bishop raised a brow but nodded for her to go ahead.
“If you please, Your Grace, I am Lady—”
The man raised his own hand swiftly, palm forward, halting her in midsentence. “That remains to be seen, young woman,” he said disapprovingly. “Pray, do not interrupt me again.”
Since she herself had just been interrupted, and not very nicely, Willa thought his reprimand a bit much. Still, Nathaniel wished her to impress the Bishop with their need for his approval. She restrained herself and only nodded obediently.
The Bishop went on. “Lord Reardon tells me that you know the facts about his disgrace.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, precisely what do you know?”
Willa sat forward as well, thankful to have the answer. “I know that it is believed Nathaniel joined a group called the Knights of the Lily who were supposedly trying to overthrow the throne—although they never actually did anything that I know of.”
The Bishop scowled. “They planned to. That is enough.”
Willa drew her own brows together. “Is it? We all think about doing terrible things at some point in our lives, do we not? I think about eating piles of sweets, but I don’t, because gluttony is a sin.” She tried not to look at the Bishop’s considerable paunch as she said that, but she noticed that he sucked it in at her words.
“Young woman, you are missing the point! The very fact of Lord Reardon’s association with this group is his sin. He did not think about joining a group of traitors and then resist temptation. He joined. He attended meetings in the dark of night; he plotted right along with them.”
“How do you know?” Willa asked, truly curious.
“He was seen,” the Bishop said meaningfully. “I have the evidence right here.” He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a scrap of newsprint. He handed it to Willa gravely but with a certain air of smugness that grated on her. She took the sheet slowly. She had no problem believing in Nathaniel’s ultimate innocence when he stood before her, but part of her was afraid that the Bishop did have some horrible proof that would force her to face something she didn’t want to face.
The scrap was folded, with only printed words on the outside, a partial column of writing that was meaningless. “Open it,” the Bishop said.
Willa opened it. Printed on the news sheet was a cartoon, a caricature of three men kneeling around the figure of a woman who stood on a pedestal like a goddess statue. “Fleur and her Followers,” read the words at the bottom of the drawing. “Fleur?” Willa murmured. “Oh, the Lily. I see,” she said before the Bishop could answer. She didn’t want him to speak just now.
“Fleur” wasn’t wearing a great deal. Only bits of gossamer drapery kept the woman from complete nudity. The man to the left of the “statue” was an ordinary man of medium age and medium looks—although Willa did notice that he seemed a bit weak of chin. The man to the right was a portly figure with a menacing gleam to his eyes.
The third man, half-hidden behind a bit of flowing drapery so that only half his face showed clearly, was Nathaniel. Willa’s heart turned over. She would know that jaw, that cheekbone, that particular tilt of brow—
“You see?” the Bishop asked. “That is Sir Foster there on the left—he fled England in shame when this cartoon was published—and on the right, the late Mr. Wadsworth, who died a hero after penetrating the group and exposing it forever. And there, in the center, hiding like the coward he is … your Lord Reardon.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” Willa said stoutly. She gestured to the drawing. “This could be anyone bearing the slightest resemblance to Lord Reardon.”
The Bishop narrowed his eyes. He reached into his drawer once more. “Could this?”
He lay another portion of news sheet on the desk, this one unfolded to reveal the crisply drawn lines of a small and sniveling Nathaniel, along with the other man from the first drawing, cowering before the wrath of a large and handsome Mr. Wadsworth, who threatened them even while himself clearly stabbed through the heart. The line of print at the bottom read, “The cost of heroism—a mighty price indeed.”
Dismayed despite herself, Willa tore her eyes away from the drawings to examine the artist’s signature. “Who drew these? Who is this Sir Thorogood?”
The Bishop made a protesting noise. “Sir Thorogood is—was—a very well-known political cartoonist who made quite a splash earlier this year.”
“Was?”
“Yes. He suddenly stopped submitting drawings a few months ago—some say because of pressure from
your affianced groom,” he finished portentously.
“Where can I find him?” insisted Willa. “I want to ask him how he knew Nath—Lord Reardon was actually part of this …” She waved the drawing at him. “This company.”
The Bishop blinked. “Er, well, no one actually knows who Sir Thorogood is.”
Willa tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“Sir Thorogood is something of a mystery, I’m afraid. He came upon the scene, telling tales about all sorts of venality and corruption among the upper classes—all of which proved to be true, mind you—and then disappeared after less than a year. There was one fellow claiming to be Thorogood, a peacock dandy prancing about in high heels, yet, but I believe he was found out to be an impostor.”
Willa slowly began to smile. “So this is your ‘evidence’? This is everyone’s ‘evidence’? A drawing—a cartoon—done by a mysterious artist who doesn’t exist?” She laughed in relief, feeling as though she’d shed a yoke of stone. “I’m afraid I’m going to need more definitive proof than that before I refuse a fine man like Nathaniel.”
The Bishop leaned forward and snatched the drawing back. “Then answer this! Never, not once, has your Lord Reardon denied any of this! Why would that be, do you think?”
Willa pursed her lips. “You’re saying that if he was an honest man, he would deny it. That logic is faulty, for if he were a lying man, he would also deny it. So, if we were to follow your thinking, he’s an honest man for not denying it! Yet, if he were an honest man, he would not be a traitor!” She sat back, very satisfied with her argument. “I don’t believe any of it.”
The Bishop was looking a bit confused and more than a little angry. “Then you’re a very foolish girl. Don’t you realize that it doesn’t matter whether or not you believe it? Everyone else does! What sort of life will you have, being ostracized by Society, having no invitations, no callers, no friends?”
Willa retained her smile. “I have friends. Nothing Society can do will change that.” She shrugged. “As for the rest, I’ve done well enough without them all these years.”
“And what of your children? What sort of life will you be giving to them?”
That was something Willa had not considered. She hesitated until she saw the Bishop’s small, smug expression. He believed he had scored on her with that question.
She abruptly decided that he was an unworthy man. A judgmental blowhard, large on display, short on spirit. “A badger,” she murmured to herself. “Meles meles.”
The Bishop glared at her suspiciously. “What was that?”
Willa took a deep breath. “That, Your Grace, was me deciding not to care for your opinion. You cannot block our marriage. You can only delay it. I will tell Lord Reardon that we must simply have the banns read like other couples do, and we shall wed when our two weeks are done.” She stood, no longer caring to show her best manners. “I’ve had a trying day, Your Grace. I believe I shall say good-bye now.”
The Bishop scowled at her. “You’re making a grave mistake, child. You will soon come to regret your ill-advised love every day of your life.”
“Oh dear,” Willa retorted in a careless tone. “That long?” She gave a tug to her gloves and smiled at the Bishop. “When the truth comes out and you realize how wrong you were about Lord Reardon, you should not be too ashamed to call upon me then. I plan on forgiving you most sincerely.” With that, she turned and left the chamber, deaf to the indignant sputters behind her.
Outside in the carriage, Nathaniel awaited her. The uncertainty was not evident in his expression, but Willa knew it was there.
“How did it go?” he asked her casually when she was settled opposite him.
Willa smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid we have some banns to post.”
Nathaniel nodded, then looked away. “Did you listen to his arguments?”
“Well, I ‘heard’ them,” Willa said virtuously. “I’m not terribly sure I ‘listened’ to them.”
A smile broke across Nathaniel’s face, a real smile, not simply a twist of his lips. “You didn’t? You didn’t listen?”
Willa sighed. “I simply couldn’t see any logic to his stand,” she said. “The evidence was unsubstantiated and flimsy, I’m afraid.”
Nathaniel let his head fall back on the seat. “Flimsy, she says.” He raised it to smile at her again. “The whole of England believes in that flimsy evidence.”
“Well then, shame on them.” She leaned her own head back on the squabs and shut her eyes.
You will soon come to regret your ill-advised love …
Love?
A powerful ache grew inside her at the thought of ever separating from Nathaniel. At one time she had vowed not to allow it, more from pride than anything else. That seemed like months ago. How astonishing that it had been a mere five days.
Five days was long enough, apparently. Long enough to learn to like the man he was. Long enough to know that she desired him. Long enough to miss him when he was out of sight.
Long enough to love him.
Nathaniel said something to her just then, but Willa didn’t really hear or notice when the carriage turned onto Grosvenor Square.
Sunk deep into the luxurious carriage seat, Willa was really only conscious of one thing.
She loved Nathaniel. She was wildly, madly, in love with her husband. Not after twenty years, not after twenty days. Within a week, she had lost her heart.
It was miraculous. It was terrifying. Deeply, soulchillingly terrifying.
What if he did not feel the same?
And of course he didn’t. Willa knew she wasn’t bad looking, if one liked dark hair and a bit extra in the bosom, but she was no beauty like Daphne. Willa came to a sobering realization as she sat there feigning sleep with her eyes closed.
If she was not mistaken, at some point Nathaniel had wanted Daphne—although Daphne had chosen Basil, something Willa couldn’t visualize.
Basil, my love. Hold me, Basil. Sweep me off my feet, Basil.
No, entirely unacceptable. She could never want a man named Basil.
Daphne had wanted Basil… and Nathaniel had wanted Daphne.
But he had never wanted her.
She felt a little sick. She had always envisioned love as a mutual thing, even fancied herself being swept away by the devotion and desire in a man’s eyes.
The danger of being the only one in love had never occurred to her.
How absolutely infuriating.
Although Willa had every intention of beginning her quest to change minds about Nathaniel immediately, she had no qualms about pausing for a good luncheon first. The table that was set in this house was one thing she had no complaints about.
So it was nearly midafternoon when she finally made her way to speak to her first subject.
He was flat on his back in the bed and was struggling to sit up when she made her own entrance. She waved him back. “Hello again, Mr. Porter. Would you like some company?”
Ren had hoped Simon had returned, but it was Willa, which was nearly as good. She had been the first one in a very long time who didn’t seem to see him as anything other than an ordinary man.
Still, he answered, “No.” He watched her face fall, then relented. He had spent a long night after Basil had left him, in too much pain, both physical and mental, to sleep. He was damned tired of his empty room and his empty thoughts.
“Oh, stay,” he muttered. “Or go. Whatever you like.”
Willa turned around and fixed him with such a smile of pleasure that he felt his pulse increase. She was a beauty, with her dark hair and those twilight eyes. He was not accustomed to being smiled at by beauties.
At least, not anymore.
The awful feeling faded, the one that had made him bark at her when she first entered. He hated the way that people looked at the scars and the broken body and turned away. Even if they tried to hide it, he could tell that inside they were turning away, unable to bear his ugliness.
He didn’t
blame them. He knew he’d been every bit as shallow once upon a time. But he couldn’t help the fact that it hurt. Again and again, over and over, every new person who spied him brought the same shock home to him, never letting him forget that he was now a monster.
Willa picked up the tray and turned to him. He was off in his head somewhere, someplace unhappy, it appeared. She cleared her throat, waiting until he looked her way, then stepped close to the bed.
He pulled back ever so slightly as she approached, turning the scarred side of his face away. How silly. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t already seen it.
She plunked the tray down on his lap, but it was obvious that there was nothing he could do about it in his prone position.
“Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered. He obviously wouldn’t put up with her feeding him, not prickly with pride as he was. How was he supposed to eat? “Bloody doctor, had the man no sense at all?”
Ren was gazing at her with horror, she realized. Straightening, she put her hands on her hips. “Oh, perfect. You can wave a gun around the dinner table, but I cannot let loose a few little words?”
“But… you’re a lady!”
Willa had finally gotten him to think of something else. She wasn’t going to drop it now. She threw her hands high with annoyance that she didn’t really feel.
“And are you not a gentleman? I think you are not one to throw stones at my black kettle, sir.”
“What?” The girl was mad. That must be it. “Do they know you are running around loose?”
She stopped her railing and smiled at him. Damn, she had a lovely smile.
“No, they don’t. And you aren’t going to tell them, are you?”
Still, she didn’t seem dangerous, and she was very decorative. Ren relaxed a bit. He needn’t worry about the good opinion of a madwoman, and he needn’t hide his face. Suddenly cheered by her company, he cocked his head at the tray, still balanced on his lap. “If I promise not to decry your language, will you give me a bit of assistance with lunch?”
Willa smiled again. Oh, she did like him. He was so dear, with his shy, lopsided smile and his sad blue eyes.
Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 01] Page 18