by Mary Balogh
But again he was interrupted, this time by Abby’s hand coming to rest lightly upon his sleeve.
“Mr. Grimes is not offering me an insult, Gil,” she said. “He is merely doing his job, which is to gather as much information relevant to your case as he possibly can so that he can make a convincing argument in your favor and be ready to counter any argument the other lawyer will make.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Grimes said. “That is exactly correct.”
Gil clenched his hands in his lap.
“I was Abigail Westcott,” Abby told him. “I am the daughter of the late Earl of Riverdale and the present Marchioness of Dorchester. The one negative fact about me that you will need to be prepared to deal with is that, unknown to my mother until after my father’s death six years ago, her marriage to him was not valid. He had a wife still living when he married her.”
“Bigamy?” The lawyer frowned.
Abby inclined her head. “And illegitimacy for my brother and sister and myself,” she said.
“I fail to see—” Gil said, but her hand tightened about his arm and he fell silent again.
There followed seemingly endless and very personal, intrusive questions of his wife. Gil sat through it all in stony, suffering silence as he began to realize just what he had exposed her to by marrying her. Not only this interrogation by a lawyer who was supposedly on his side, but the future indignity of full exposure by a less friendly lawyer in the presence of a judge and surely of General Sir Edward and Lady Pascoe too. He closed his eyes at one point and wondered how he could possibly have slept so comfortably last night and again after waking early and making love to his wife for the third time. He must be a prize idiot. He had had no inkling of the ordeal that was ahead for her this morning.
“I believe your husband’s chances of persuading a judge to award him custody of his daughter are somewhat improved, Mrs. Bennington,” Grimes told her by way of summary when he had seemed to run out of questions. “My learned colleague, the general’s lawyer, will of course make much of the irregularity of your birth, and indeed it is a great pity there is that. However, your mother has since married the Marquess of Dorchester, your brother is a major in an infantry regiment, your sister has made a respectable marriage to a portrait painter of some means and growing renown, and your maternal uncle is a clergyman with a living in Dorsetshire. Your father’s family, which includes the present Earl of Riverdale, your cousin, has not disowned you. Neither has the dowager countess, your grandmother. Or, according to your account, any other member of the Westcott family. You were raised and educated as a lady. You have a tidy fortune of your own. I think all this may do nicely.”
“But my chances are only somewhat improved?” Gil asked testily.
“There is your appearance,” Grimes told him bluntly. “Unfortunately, Lieutenant Colonel, when one hears the accusation, which you claim to be false, that you were physically abusive to your wife, one is inclined to believe it. And when one hears the story, which you do not contest, of your storming the general’s house when he was not at home to protect his wife and granddaughter, terrifying the servants as well as the lady and the child, then one is even more inclined to give credence to your late wife’s accusations.”
“I am to wear a mask, then, am I?” Gil asked him, frowning. “That of a curly-haired, round-cheeked cherub, perhaps?”
“Unfortunately,” Grimes said, apparently unperturbed by his clearly irritated client, “people are prejudged upon their appearance, even when the one who does the judging does not realize it. And your inclination to become angry does not help your case.”
“Well, what do you expect?” Gil asked him.
“I expect that you will learn to follow my instructions when it comes to the hearing,” Grimes said. “If, that is, you are serious about recovering your daughter. I expect, sir, that you will learn to curb your temper no matter what my learned colleague may be saying that outrages you. You must trust me. I cannot promise beyond all doubt that I will win a favorable verdict for you, but I am your best hope.”
“I am to smile and grin, as though I have not a care in the world or a sensible thought in my head, then, am I?” Gil asked, his frown deepening.
Grimes did not answer. Abby’s hand slid along Gil’s forearm until it was tucked within his own.
“We will both trust you, Mr. Grimes,” she said. “And by the day of the hearing we will both look as though we do.” She smiled at Gil, and he wanted to punch someone. Not her. Not Grimes either. But someone.
“What may help,” Grimes said, “is an explanation of how you got that unfortunate scar across your face, Lieutenant Colonel. Can we make something heroic of it? I do know about your leading a forlorn hope while you were in the Peninsula, and I shall certainly work that into my defense of your character. The facial wound was not acquired on that occasion, by any chance?”
“No, but I know the story,” Abby said. “He was slashed by the sword of a cavalryman in India while saving the lives of hundreds of his men by ordering them to form square instead of fleeing in panic.”
“Form square?” The lawyer raised his eyebrows.
Gil explained.
“It is a pity,” the lawyer said, “that you were merely a sergeant at the time. However, I believe the story must be worked into what I say. It will encourage the judge to see you differently. And at least the uniform in which you will appear will be that of a lieutenant colonel. It displays a few medals, I hope?”
“Yes, a few,” Gil admitted reluctantly. He hated all this. Hated it. And all because Caroline had taken Katy to her mother instead of leaving her safe and well cared for at Rose Cottage with her nurse and other servants whom Gil had trusted.
But there was no point in crying over spilled milk. Wherever had that saying originated? he wondered idly.
The wearying questioning continued. Many of the questions Gil had surely answered before in letters. But he answered them again. Grimes wanted details about the house in Gloucestershire, the servants who worked there, and the neighbors who lived close by. He wanted a list of persons who would be willing to give Lieutenant Colonel Bennington a good character and was clearly unhappy that Gil could give him the names only of fellow officers, none of whom, including Harry, lived close enough to make a personal appearance at the hearing. His mind touched upon the Westcotts, most notably the Duke of Netherby and the Earl of Riverdale, but knowing what they did of him now they must not be feeling kindly toward him. Grimes wanted to know about Gil’s relationship with his first wife, especially while they were living at Rose Cottage. Were there any servants or neighbors who might be drawn into testifying to loud arguments or verbal or physical abuse? Or their absence?
“Not that the law does not allow a man to discipline his wife in any way he sees fit short of killing her,” he added. “But we must hope the judge does not decide you are too violent a man, Lieutenant Colonel Bennington, to be granted charge of a child.”
“My child,” Gil said curtly. “But anyway, yes, there were arguments. Are there not always disagreements and arguments in any relationship? There was no abuse, physical or otherwise, unless insisting that my wife stay safe at home with our baby while I went to war without them counts as abuse.”
“Hardly,” the lawyer said, and Gil regarded him with narrowed eyes.
Do not lose your temper, he told himself. Practice what Abby has promised you will both do by the time of the hearing before a judge.
The questions continued.
Grimes expected the case to come to a quick resolution. It would not drag on indefinitely. General Sir Edward Pascoe’s lawyer was pressing for an early appearance before a judge. The general and his wife were already in London in anticipation of it.
“I am also eager for an early resolution,” Gil said as his lawyer got to his feet in a clear indication that their meeting was over. “I wish to return to the c
ountry with my wife and daughter.”
Abby extended her hand to Grimes, thanked him for his time, and assured him that they trusted him.
“He is not confident,” Gil told her as they walked away from the chambers. “I ought to have chosen someone different. Perhaps it is still not too late.”
“I believe,” she said, “I would feel more worried about Mr. Grimes if he were confident. He is amassing facts in great detail, Gil, so that he may make the very best case possible for you. He is neglecting nothing, including the effect your scar and my birth might have upon the judge. He will explain the scar, I am sure, in a way that shows you as the hero you were on that occasion. I am sorry about the other. If only I were still Lady Abigail, I would undoubtedly be more of an asset to you.”
“If you were still Lady Abigail,” he said, “you would not be married to me at all, Abby. You would have married some grand lord years ago and presented him with half a dozen children by now.”
“Oh. One each year since I was eighteen?” she said. “That does not sound pleasant at all. I am glad, then, that I am not still Lady Abigail.”
“So am I,” he said. “I want those six children—or maybe not quite as many—to be mine.”
She turned her head to smile at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, and devil take it, he wanted her. Right here in the middle of a busy London street. And he wondered if perhaps he had already impregnated her. Two nights. Four times. It was a bit of a dizzying thought. But for the moment it had at least distracted his mind from the growing worry of what would happen about his daughter.
“Gil,” she said, “I believe Mr. Grimes is a competent lawyer. He asked questions I would not have thought of myself. I do not believe that anything General Pascoe’s lawyer says can possibly take him by surprise. He will have his answers and arguments ready. You must trust him.”
“That is easier said than done,” he said.
“Yes.” She squeezed his arm.
* * *
• • •
After luncheon at the hotel and a brief walk with Beauty, they went their separate ways. Abigail went to call upon her mother in a hackney carriage the hotel receptionist had summoned at Gil’s bidding. Gil himself was going to the Horse Guards to begin proceedings to end his military career.
“Are you quite sure it is what you wish to do?” she asked with one foot on the step of the carriage, her hand in his.
“Yes,” he said. “It has been a good career, but I do not think I would make a good peacetime officer, Abby. I thought I would go insane with boredom on St. Helena. And I would not want to take you to follow the drum in the event I was posted to another country. I would like even less leaving you behind to wait for my return. Besides, I have a hankering to go home, to settle down at last. Regardless.”
He looked like granite again when he said that final word.
She had a hankering to go home too, Abigail thought as the carriage moved away from the hotel and she raised a hand in farewell. To Rose Cottage, even though she had not yet seen it. She liked the sound of it. It was set in gardens that were alive with color in the summertime, Gil had told her, though he had not seen it for himself. And it would be full of the fragrance of roses and the beauty of their blooms. The house was large but not quite a mansion. A smallish manor, perhaps. And it would be hers by virtue of the fact that she was Mrs. Bennington, a name she hugged to herself. She wanted so badly the sense of belonging that her own home would bring. Even Hinsford had not quite brought it, and Harry had reminded her of the fact when he had asked her what she would do if and when he brought a bride to live there.
Did she love Gil? She was not sure. But it seemed somehow irrelevant. She did not need to be in love, to be walking on air, to have stars in her eyes. For of one thing she was sure: She had married the man of her own choosing—the one and only. Hurried as the whole business had been, she had not felt a moment’s regret since.
Not even, she thought, taking a deep breath as the carriage stopped outside Marcel’s house, over the trouble she had caused with her family. It was something they must grapple with—or not. It was not really her problem.
Nevertheless she was relieved to find that her mother was alone in the private sitting room that adjoined her bedchamber. Marcel was at the House of Lords, and Bertrand had escorted Estelle to a garden party even though Abigail’s aunt Louise had offered to take her with Jessica.
“He is a steady young man,” her mother explained, drawing Abigail down to sit beside her on a couch, “and keeps an eagle eye upon his sister even though she is quick to remind him that she is twenty-one years old and his elder by twenty minutes. He knew I wanted to remain at home this afternoon and that I would prefer to do so alone. You said you might come.”
“I believe I said I would,” Abigail said. “I suppose the whole family knows by now.”
“It would be surprising if anyone did not,” her mother said. “Elizabeth was busy organizing a second wedding breakfast for you until she received your note to inform her that Lieutenant Colonel Bennington has business that will keep him occupied for every waking moment during the next week or two—or words to that effect. But she still wants the family to go there for tea tomorrow, and she very much hopes you will go too, Abby. I am sure there is a letter on the way to you at the Pulteney.”
Abigail sighed. “I will go,” she said. “There is no point in hiding, is there? And actually I have no desire to do so. There is nothing to hide from. Is everyone very upset?”
“Matilda and Mildred and Louise called here this morning,” her mother said. “Your father’s three sisters. The triumvirate. The eternal fixers. I suppose they spoke for everyone. They are concerned, Abby, especially when for six years you have shown such marked reluctance to marry anyone. Of course they are concerned. But if you believe anyone is going to cast you off, then you have not been paying much attention since your father died. What their brother did to me and to you and Camille and Harry, and what he did to Anna’s mother and to Anna herself, shook his three sisters to their roots, you know. What he did to us he did to them. And to your poor grandmother, Humphrey’s mother. You would have to do a lot worse than marry a man who is not a gentleman born, Abby, to alienate them.”
“I had never thought of matters quite that way,” Abigail admitted. “I suppose I have assumed that only the five of us—you, Camille, Harry, Anna, and I—were directly affected by what happened. But of course we all were—Alexander, Grandmama, the aunts. Everyone.”
“Abby.” Her mother leaned across the space between them and patted her hand. “I have only one real question for you today now that I have recovered from yesterday’s shock, and we are alone. Can you be happy with Lieutenant Colonel Bennington? It is a pointless question, I know, since you have married him and nothing can change that. But . . . can you?”
“I can, Mama,” Abigail said. “I’m as sure as I can possibly be that I can.”
Her mother sighed with what might have been relief and closed her eyes briefly. She drew breath, and it seemed for a moment that she was about to say more. But she did not do so. She opened her eyes, smiled, and pulled on the bell rope beside the couch to summon the tea tray.
“Who could possibly have dreamed just a little more than six years ago,” she said, “that life would turn so topsy-turvy for us all?”
“Happily so,” Abigail said.
“Anna, after growing up in an orphanage, married a duke,” her mother said. “Camille married a schoolteacher from the orphanage where he grew up when she was once betrothed to a viscount. Harry barely survived the wars as a military officer when he was once Earl of Riverdale. You have married a man who could not possibly be lower on the social scale than he is, when once upon a time the world of wealth and privilege was about to open to you in all its splendor. And I married a rake.”
She laughed, and they were silent for a while as the tea t
ray was brought in and she poured them each a cup.
“I believe we are all the happier for the turmoil we have been through, Mama,” Abigail said. “Even Harry is safe and recovering well now he is at home. He is even riding again.”
“And you?” Her mother frowned at her, her cup halfway to her mouth.
“I would rather be married to Gil than to any aristocrat you would care to name,” Abigail said.
“But you do not know any aristocrats outside the family,” her mother pointed out, and they both laughed.
“But . . .” her mother said. “There is this nasty business looming with Lieutenant Colonel Bennington’s daughter and General Pascoe. Marcel says that both he and his wife are powerful and influential people. And you are going to be drawn into the nastiness. They are in London. Did you know that?”
“I did,” Abigail said. “We spent the morning at the chambers of Gil’s lawyer. He is very thorough. Gil is afraid to trust him fully, but I do. I believe the hearing with a judge will be soon.”
“That poor little girl, being pulled this way and that,” her mother said with a sigh. “Though I suppose she knows nothing about it, does she? I just wish you were not involved, Abby. But I will say no more on the matter. You are involved. You went into this marriage with your eyes wide open, and you are of age. You would be quite within your rights to tell me to mind my own business. Now. How are we going to persuade this husband of yours to take his place in the family? I do at least partly understand his reluctance, you know. I tried to distance myself from the Westcott family after I learned that I had no claim whatsoever to call myself a Westcott. Will he come to Elizabeth’s for tea tomorrow if I send a personal note? I fear I behaved badly yesterday.”
“I think not, Mama,” Abigail said. “I will tell him what you have said, but he is deeply aware of the inferiority of his social rank, and he also feels that he was somehow deceiving you all about himself when you were at Hinsford. I suppose he decided then that it did not matter too much since he did not expect to meet any of you ever again.”