Steeplechase

by Bancroft, Blair

  “Oh, miss!” Finella gasped, eyes wide with excitement.

  “No,” she responded depressingly, “It is not what you think.”

  Finella seized the robe and scurried out. Sarah doubted her maid had heeded one word of her protest. No doubt she was off to inform the entire household that the master had left his dressing gown in his wife’s bedchamber, something they had undoubtedly learned not to expect over the course of the last few weeks. Sarah scooted back under the covers, brow furrowed in concentration. What was her strategy to be? Should she be a pattern card of the invisible wife and hope for the best? Or should she demand her husband’s attention—demonstrate the necessity of his full-time attention—by plotting an escapade more perfectly outrageous than her last?

  She wanted Harlan to be pleased with her . . . and yet she could not bear to be ignored. He was her hero, if with feet of clay. Dashing, debonair, and enamored of another woman. Nothing had changed, except he was now more angry with her than he had ever been before. Harlan Dawnay, Lord Davenham, had a wife for show, a mistress to satisfy his needs, and male friends with whom he spent the rest of his time. Harlan Dawnay, with his dazzling good looks and infinite charm, had propelled her into a devil’s bargain she was not honor-bound to keep! It was, in fact, infamous.

  She could leave him, traveling to Chesterton on her own, using the excuse that she wished to see what refurbishment was needed before they returned there for the summer. Distance should somewhat lessen the pain.

  At least she thought it might.

  Leave Harlan? Not see him at all, not even for the few minutes each day he spent in her company? Those few precious minutes?

  She was a foolish flibbertigibbet for loving him, of course, but there seemed to be no cure for her passion. Therefore, it was Harlan who must change his ways, not she.

  Surely he was not totally indifferent to her? Otherwise . . . Ah, yes, if he were indifferent to her, he would not have thrown his dressing gown at her, ordering her to cover up.

  Therefore . . . she had not been a failure last night! He had noticed. Of course he had. How naive not to have realized it until now. Blushing furiously, Sarah recalled their dinner in Brighton when her husband’s physical response had been so apparent even she had noticed. How could she have forgotten?

  Several hours later, with the skies still leaden but the rain reduced to a mizzle, Sarah sat propped up on her pillows, her coverlet completely obscured by sheets of newsprint. On the bedtable with her watch were the invitations she had accepted, nearly all of which were events sponsored by society’s younger and more daring hostesses. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the old saying went. Lady Davenham was kicking over the traces with a vengeance.

  Newsprint rustled as Sarah examined every announcement, every advertisement, every odd bit of information published in everything from the Times to the most notorious ragsheet on the street. So many ideas, but nothing quite . . . well, to be perfectly honest, nothing quite naughty enough. She glowered at the spread of paper before her, the reports in black and white of events that were so often gray. From the murk of the latest on dits to riots, anarchy, and patent medicines designed to cure everything from warts to the wasting disease, nothing was really black and white. Nothing clear-cut or easily understandable. So she would have to muddle along and hope for the best.

  Ah! Paper rustled as Sarah scrambled through the sheets, looking for an item she had seen but discarded as not relevant to her situation. Where . . . where?

  There! She read the announcement a second time, then a third. Impossible. Certainly not. She would never dare . . .

  Sarah sat for some time, her fingers tapping the announcement in question. Harlan would wring her neck . . . but she most certainly would not be invisible. If she dared. If she could put together enough money to buy her passage . . .

  “Miss Twitchell has called, my lady? Hughes told her you are not receiving, but she was most insistent.”

  A happy break in her desperate scheming. “Have her come up, Finella. Miss Twitchell will be a ray of sunshine in this miserable day.”

  Hastily, Sarah hopped out of bed and draped a paisley shawl over her transparent bridal ensemble. A glance in her cheval glass now showed something closer to Mother Hubbard than an overeager young wife. She made her way to the cozy sitting room adjacent to her bedchamber, where she sat on a sofa with a fine view of the modest garden below. The sun had miraculously appeared and, unimpeded by clouds or mizzle, shone through the tall windows, illuminating a swath of dust motes that seemed to be flaunting themselves, reminding her of how much of the world was frequently hidden from view. Seemingly empty space was actually filled with a thousand bits of . . . something. Thoughts never spoken, intentions never fulfilled, ideas abandoned, hearts held close, love never revealed . . . was this where they went? Into thin air, where they lived as the dust of shattered dreams?

  “Oh, my dear Sarah, are you ill?” Esmerelda dashed across the sitting room, eyes wide with anxiety.

  “No, no, not at all,” Sarah assured her, “but I slept little and the rain was so dreary I thought to be lazy today.” She summoned a brilliant smile. “Do sit and tell me all, Essy. Are matters right with you? I fear you have had a great shock.”

  With a heartfelt sigh Esmerelda dropped down onto the sofa and took her friend’s hands in hers. “I am overwhelmed. Shocked, yet deliriously happy. Is this possible? It must be, for that is how it is with me. Lord Southwaite has spent the morning with us, and I know the whole. In the space of an hour I have been appalled, mortified, anguished, and uplifted. Imagine, Southwaite my father! My aunt tells me it is he who provided my dowry, many years ago when he first learned of my existence.”

  Miss Twitchell drew a ragged breath and plunged on. “No one is ever to know, of course, but . . .” Drawing a handkerchief from her reticule, Esmerelda blew her nose with some vigor. “Forgive me, dear friend, but I am not myself at the moment, for hard on Lord Southwaite’s heels came your brother, offering marriage. To me. This has been a day so perfectly splendid I have no words to describe it.” Miss Twitchell clasped her hands in front of her mouth, head bent as if in prayer.

  Several unsuitable thoughts chased through Sarah’s mind, including wondering what Harlan would think about Dickon’s desertion from the ranks of London bucks, for there could be no doubt about her brother making a love match. Lord Richard was not merely getting married, he was rushing into the arms of his bride with enthusiasm, flinging his man-about-town days aside without a backward glance. And all for a child of tarnished parentage. While Harlan had been unwilling to put aside his daily rounds of clubs, sports, and mistress, even for a quarter million pounds and the daughter of a marquess.

  And her parents—what would they say about this marriage, for Dickon was the “spare,” heir to the marquisate if anything should happen to Wycliffe on his interminable wanderings about the world. They would, Sarah decided, be more pleased than appalled by Esmerelda’s true parentage. There were, after all, a great many miscellanies in the ton, high-born children with blood ranging far from the legal father’s bloodline. Esmerelda was certainly not the first such case. Lady Rotherwick would take Essy under her wing and teach her what she needed to know.

  “I trust you accepted,” Sarah murmured.

  “I told him I could not, that I was beneath his touch,” Miss Twitchell asserted, “but Richard would have none of it. He was quite determined. So . . .” With a dramatic flourish, Esmerelda drew off her glove and held up her hand, revealing an emerald surrounded by small diamonds.

  Even as the two girls fell into each other’s arms, hugging and misty-eyed, a corner of Sarah’s mind wept with sorrow instead of joy. A love match. Esmerelda was making a love match. She would go to Dickon radiant with joy, as he would to her. When he said his vows, he would mean them. He would not recite them by rote as Harlan had done, very likely paying no heed to the meaning at all—just a ceremony to be endured so he could claim a vast inheritance. His bride, a backdrop
, like scenery on a stage. Lord Davenham, strutting his starring role in the life he preferred, while his wife simply . . . disappeared.

  Except that she hadn’t. Although she had not managed to stick to her husband’s side like a burr, she had refused to be ignored.

  She had annoyed him no end.

  Perhaps he even hated her.

  Yet surely one of these days he would realize . . .

  Dutifully, Sarah listened to every last detail of Lord Richard’s proposal, of the tale of his indecently early morning interview with Lord Southwaite at which he had been told he must wait two hours to make his offer in order to allow the baron time to speak to the ladies in Great Russell Street. How Richard had chomped at the bit, poor dear, Miss Twitchell exclaimed, eyes shining, but now all was well and they were to be married as soon as the banns could be read. A small ceremony, only closest family and friends, for she quite understood that a grand wedding would not do.

  Sarah’s mischievous mind pictured Southwaite and Mr. Twitchell participating in the ceremony, perhaps one on either side of the bride. Monstrous! Her thoughts were most improper. But there was no way round a wedding that did not include an inevitable meeting between the Marquess and Marchioness of Rotherwick and Mrs. Prunella Twitchell.

  Wincing, Sarah wondered what that redoubtable lady would wear.

  The two friends made an appointment to begin shopping for Esmerelda’s bride clothes the very next day. But when Miss Twitchell had floated off for home, Sarah returned to her bedchamber and re-examined the announcement she had found earlier. She tapped it with her finger, gazing into space. How large a bribe would be required? Certainly, this was not a matter that could be settled for a guinea or two.

  Yet at the moment Sarah, Lady Davenham, was still as invisible as the dust motes in the sitting room, popping into her husband’s notice only in rare moments of disturbance, as the particles of dust appeared when the sun shone at exactly the right angle.

  She had considered waiting—as he expected her to. Truly she had. But that was the coward’s approach to their imbroglio. She must find a way to force the elegant, insouciant Harlan, Viscount Davenham—once and for all—to notice he had a wife who was not too young, and certainly not complacent.

  Sarah rang for Finella. “Please discover if Lord Davenham is dining at home this evening.”

  “I heard him tell Hughes he’d be out until late, my lady. Said he’d be com—commis-something with Lord Richard. Mr. Chumley was to be there too.”

  “Commiserating,” Sarah ground out.

  “Aye, that’s the word,” Finella exclaimed, beaming.

  “How delightful.” Sarah gave the fringe of her shawl a vicious tug. “I have changed my mind, Finella. I will dress for dinner and go out tonight, after all. I shall send a note round to discover where I may find my mother and sister. The men are not the only ones who wish to discuss this day’s events.”

  Sarah sat at her dainty marquetry desk and stared at the blank paper before her, her hand frozen on her quill. Harlan. Was he worth her anguish, her daring? Was caring so much her ultimate foolishness? This was her final moment of choice, her last opportunity to stand down, back away, be the wife Davenham thought he wanted. But was it not commonly known that love was blind? Some even called it madness.

  The problem was quite simple. She had no choice at all. She loved him. She could not, would not, wait. What was it the French said? Ah, yes. She loved him à corps perdu. She was a “lost body,” head-long in love with Harlan Dawnay. Refusing to take no—or even wait— for an answer. Therefore . . .

  Sarah dipped her quill in ink. Dear Mama . . .

  “Your Grace.”

  “Lady Davenham.” The Duke of Parkington, acknowledged Sarah’s curtsy with a nod. “I understand Lord Richard has set the family atwitter,” he added gravely.

  Oddly, Sarah could almost swear she saw his lips twitch. Not for the first time she wondered if there were more to the dour duke than was apparent. Lady Rotherwick and Amalie were engaged in an animated conversation with two of the ton’s most formidable dowagers when Sarah joined them, finding Parkington standing quietly behind the ladies, his blank expression, she suspected, an attempt to conceal his ennui. Good manners dictated she engage him in conversation.

  “Indeed,” Sarah returned with a smile. “I fear Richard has forsworn marriage for nearly as long as I can remember, and suddenly he has gone all starry-eyed and breathless, as if no one had ever loved before. It is quite unaccountable.”

  Parkington peered down his long aristocratic nose. “Is it?” he inquired.

  Sarah blinked, gave him a sharp glance. “Are you speaking of love?” she asked. “Somehow . . . I beg your pardon, but I had not thought . . . Indeed, my tongue has run away with me again. That is my trouble, you see—I do not think!”

  “You assumed I made a marriage of convenience and have no concept of love.” Parkington raised a shaggy brow.

  Sarah winced. She met the duke at nearly every ton event. She fully expected him to become her brother-in-law, but never before had they had such a personal conversation. “Your Grace, I do most sincerely beg your pardon. I assure you I am the bane of my family. Please do not blame my mama or my sister. Amalie, I assure you, is a pattern card of every virtue. It is I who am the black sheep, who never quite gets things right. I am forever tumbling in and out of difficulties, you see, and—” The Duke of Parkington held up his hand, and Sarah broke off in mid-sentence. Unfurling her fan, she waved it in front of her scarlet cheeks.

  His Grace put a hand under Sarah’s elbow, moving them apart from the chattering ladies. “My dear girl,”he intoned solemnly, “I know your sister would make an outstanding duchess, but how will she be as a wife? I am well aware she is about as enamored of me as Davenham is of you—if you will forgive my being so blunt.” Inwardly, Sarah winced, acknowledging that he was only speaking the truth.

  “I had a very good, if brief, marriage,” Parkington added quietly when Sarah continued speechless, “so I am aware that love can exist. Enough so that I cling to the hope that it may yet blossom on seemingly infertile ground.”

  “Your Grace,” Sarah murmured, biting her lip, “I had no idea. You care for her then?”

  “I believe,” Parkington responded carefully, “that your sister will be a very fine person when she learns to value being my wife more than being my duchess.”

  “I wonder . . . I fear my advice is very poor, Your Grace—look how badly I have managed my own situation—but perhaps you should find a private moment and speak to her of these things. My parents are not overt in their affection, but I believe theirs was a love match. My brother is fully engaged by love, and I, too, have been trapped by it. Therefore, I think it quite possible Amalie is not immune to the emotion. Perhaps she is trying so very hard to be the duchess she thinks you want that she has no idea you prefer a wife. You are . . . I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but you are not one who wears his heart on his sleeve. You keep your own counsel so well that it is possible Amalie believes your only interest is in considering her points as men do when buying a horse at Tatt’s—”

  Parkington choked, his shoulders heaving into a cough. “I beg your pardon, dear girl. I am aware I am not a jolly sort. Rather a stick, I suppose. I fear I’ve spent my life perfecting the art of covering up the fact I actually have feelings, as other men have.”

  “Then you will speak with her, be more honest about what you desire in a wife?”

  The duke nodded, although he looked particularly grim at the thought. “And you, my lady . . . will you do the same?”

  “I realize,” Sarah responded slowly, “that the pride of a duke must outweigh the pride of a viscountess by a very great deal, but I find myself unable to tell my husband that I love him. You have no impediments—oh dear, at least I think you do not.” Sarah shot an anguished look at the duke from under her long lashes.

  “None,” he assured her solemnly, but this time there was no mistaking his lips had a decided t
witch. “I promise I shall whisk your sister away to some private place, thus thoroughly compromising both our reputations, and tell her quite bluntly that I require a wife for myself and a mother for my child far more than I require an elegantly garbed statue standing at the head of my staircase. And I shall do so even if you do not have the courage to settle matters with Davenham.”

  “You shame me, Your Grace. But I must use my own methods. Not as wise as a simple admission of the truth, perhaps, but hopefully they will do.

  “Parkington!” Lady Amalie, noticing at last that she had lost her suitor’s attention, approached them, her fan beating an irritated tattoo on her palm.

  The duke favored his beloved with a smile that was more feral than any Sarah had ever seen him display. He offered his arm. “Let us stroll for a bit, my dear. I’ve a mind for a few moments of private conversation.” Parkington turned a more kindly expression on Sarah. “Bonne chance, Lady Davenham.”

  “Et vous aussi,” Sarah whispered under her breath as she watched the duke and her sister make their way through the crowd. Parkington was going to need every bit of luck he could get. There was a great deal Amalie needed to learn about life.

  How very strange that tonight she felt older and wiser than her sister.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Deserted, by God!” Adrian Chumley groaned, plunging his tousled head into his hands, his elbows resting on the scarred pine table at the George Inn, the very site where they had hatched Lord Davenham’s scheme to acquire his Aunt Portia Berrisford’s fortune. “My two best friends, caught in parson’s mousetrap,” Mr. Chumley elaborated, much aggrieved. “What’s a man to do, I ask you—ramble the town with none but me, myself and I?” Glumly, he stretched one hand forward to ladle out another helping of rum punch.