by Diana Lloyd
“Your life? That’s a bit extreme.”
“From what I hear, marriage to Lady Udele would be the death of any man. To say nothing of a certain Miss Bartleby wringing my neck for getting so stupidly captured in such a scheme. I am more than thankful that both my heart and my neck are to remain intact. So come now, Oliver, get yourself dressed.”
“There’s no need. I didn’t send a note, and there’s no cause to trouble my valet, as I have no intention of making an offer for the girl.”
“You’re joking.” Penry’s expression changed from blithe irritation to curious outrage as he entered the room and approached the desk. As was his custom, he stopped at Jones’s perch and gave the colorful bird a playful ruffle of feathers.
“Do I ever joke about anything that involves money?” Their father’s dependence upon the bottle in the years preceding his death had thrust Oliver into the role of counting clerk, estate manager, and juggler of diminishing funds.
“No.” Penry pulled up a chair, sitting across from his brother. “But you must call.”
“Will the world stop spinning? Will rivers cease to flow?”
“You kissed her!” Jones let out a shrill squawk at Penry’s outburst and hopped from his perch down to Oliver’s desk.
“She kissed me.” Oliver tapped his shoulder and the bird ran up his arm to perch there, bobbing nervously as it stared at Penry with beady eyes.
“No difference. People saw. That girl did both of us a good turn, and you need to do the honorable thing.”
“If I offer for her, she will be forever known as ‘Poor Lady Scar.’ She’s pretty enough and clever, too—this will blow over her like bad weather. She’ll have men climbing over one another to offer for her next year.”
“You…you coward, you blackguard. How could you even consider leaving her to twist in the breeze?” Oliver rarely saw his brother angry. Penry was the sort who always managed to see the good in everything. No matter how miserably foul it might be.
“Oh, you are a romantic, aren’t you?” Oliver pushed away from the desk and returned Jones to his perch. “Our acquaintance lasted all of ten minutes. It is preposterous to expect a man to offer himself up in marriage to a woman he just met. This notion that a single pressing together of lips merits a marriage proposal is archaic. Men should have stood against this custom from the beginning. A simple kiss, no matter how pleasant, is not tantamount to a proposal.”
“Pleasant, was it?” Penry smiled. Heavenly. Oliver frowned at his brother. With Penry so blissfully in love with Mary Bartleby, there was no way to explain to him how amazing that single kiss had felt and how much it had mattered.
“It wasn’t unpleasant, but that’s hardly the point. If all men refused to give in to Societal pressure we could completely eradicate this custom by the end of the decade.”
“End of the decade, eh?”
“Don’t mock me. What sort of idiot pledges himself ‘till death do us part’ to a woman he doesn’t even know?”
“I said it was honorable, not ideal.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm,” Jones echoed, cocking his head.
“I have known you to be an honorable man, Oliver. I must admit I would be grossly disappointed in you should you fail to make things right.”
“What is right is for both her life and mine to go on as if the entire bloody incident never happened. Trust me, Pen, she’ll be happier not being Lady Scar.” Her kiss had been more than pleasant, but marriage was another matter. When she heard the rumors that had followed him all the way to the House of Lords, saw the crumbling estate, and pondered looking upon his hideous face until death they should part, even a woman as kind as Jewel would reconsider.
“That’s for her to decide. I will not let the family name be further tarnished by your misplaced ideals, brother. If you will not offer for her, I will.”
“Are you mad? This entire mess occurred so you could be free to marry your Miss Bartleby.” Pen must be allowed to marry. He must be able to live his life happily untainted by their father’s cruelty and failings.
“The family name suffered enough under our father. You’ve done so much to make it respected once again. Now it is my turn to sacrifice.”
“What about Miss Bartleby?” He’d voluntarily taken the whip for his brother once but could not let Pen repay him like this. It was an unequal sacrifice; a scarred face couldn’t be measured against a broken heart.
“I will make Mary understand.” Pen forced a resolute smile to his face.
“Pen, don’t do it. You deserve your happiness.” If they could not both find happiness, Oliver was content that Pen should have it. If the only way to achieve that end was to offer for a woman who would quickly learn to loathe his face, he would have to do it.
“I’ll give you another night to think it over.” Penry shook his head and turned to leave but stopped as he reached the hallway. “If you don’t offer for her by tomorrow at three o’clock, I will.”
…
“You understand how serious this is, do you not?” Uncle Edwin looked up at Julianna for the first time since she’d entered the room, face somber, eyes piercing. In front of him, spread across the top of his desk, was the note she’d written to Winchcombe and the borrowed slippers still damp with morning dew.
“I do.” She hadn’t meant to whisper, but the words came out muted, as if she wasn’t quite brave enough to speak them aloud. Clearing her throat, Julianna gathered her courage. With her father back in Boston, she’d have to defend herself.
“This scandal—”
“Hardly a scandal,” she interrupted, finding her voice at last. “It was only a kiss.”
Her uncle arched an eyebrow before speaking again. “It isn’t your perception of the event that matters, dear. Certain people will not forget what they have seen just because you explain it away as an errant kiss.”
“You mean Udele and Aunt Hester.” Her father had once told her that men favored plain speaking. She hoped her uncle would deal justly with a woman who did as well. For a moment, she thought she saw the shine of admiration in her uncle’s eyes, but it faded quickly.
“Mind your tongue, girl. Your direct nature may serve you well in Boston, but it is a liability among Society.”
“My apologies, Lord Dunwoody.” So much for plain speaking. It wasn’t as if she could adequately explain her actions anyway. The last few weeks had been beyond wretched. She was heartbroken, homesick, anxious, and lonely. And she’d kissed a man she hardly knew. Father would know what to say, what to do.
“Whether it was a kiss or a scandal matters not. Winchcombe has not seen fit to make amends, and I am not going to call him out for it. Were your father here, he could, but I will not.”
“I would never ask that much of anyone.” If her father had any idea of his sister’s falseness or her husband’s complicity, he would never have sent her here.
“A relief to hear, dear. Regardless, as I have need to look to the future prospects of my own daughters, your presence in this household is no longer tenable.”
“Am I to be sent home then?” Could it be this was all it took to be sent back to her father? If she had only known, she’d have planted her lips on a footman weeks ago.
“Your father,” Uncle began, as he pointed to a folded letter on his desk, “made it very plain he wished you to remain here during the…hostilities.”
“But surely, there won’t be war?” The signs had been there all along, she’d just been too preoccupied with Eldridge’s betrayal to see them. War would be fought on colonial soil—that’s why her father had sent her away.
The realization stole the breath from her chest. War. Her father meant to fight in the war. She had to know his plans, what he meant for her to do to help. Julianna reached out for her father’s letter.
“I’m afraid that’s the inevitable conclusion
to all the saber rattling that’s been going on all winter.” Her uncle snatched the paper away as he spoke, placing it inside a drawer before pushing it closed and turning the lock.
“When…” The thought of her father all alone during a war silenced the voice that had been so bold only a minute ago. Lock or not, she had to find a way to read that letter.
“Tomorrow at first light. Our man will take you to Smithfield market and put you on a coach to Edinburgh. From there, you’ll board a ship for the rest of the journey.”
“Where am I to go?” Gripping the sides of the chair to keep herself steady, Julianna’s head swam. She was to be sent away, not back home. Another long journey to another place where she wouldn’t know anyone.
“I have some property in the North. It’s quiet there…you won’t be burdened with any social obligations. I’ll compose a few letters of introduction. Carry them with you and you will be welcomed there.”
“Welcomed where?” She was sorry she’d been caught out, but unrepentant for the mission. If Udele had been successful, Winchcombe’s poor lovesick brother would be sitting in this chair now being forced to make an offer of marriage for Udele. Lifting her chin, Julianna awaited her punishment.
“Scotland.” Her burst of bravery evaporated as soon as she heard the word. There wasn’t going to be a ship waiting in Edinburgh to take her back to Boston. She was being sent into exile.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered. Her fate had been decided by people who cared not a whit for her. Her only hope was to find a way to get a letter to her father.
“So am I, dear.”
Chapter Three
“Lord Dunwoody.” Oliver entered the earl’s office, shifted his hat to his left hand, and extended his right hand for a handshake. Being left with his hat and gloves was no oversight. Dunwoody was not anticipating a long discussion. What that might mean, Oliver wasn’t sure.
“Didn’t think you were coming, Lord Winchcombe.” Ignoring Oliver’s hand, Dunwoody motioned for him to have a seat.
“I came as soon as I was able.” It sounded the lie that it was. Oliver added a hasty explanation. “I had some important obligations to attend to.”
“More important than the ruination of my wife’s niece?”
There was something in the older man’s tone that made Oliver think Dunwoody was already well aware of what had delayed him that morning. Attending to the Committee of Privileges to claim his seat in the House of Lords should have been a cut-and-dried affair of paying the fee and signing the register. Oliver could only wonder which of his fellow peers, which of the many enemies his father had made, had objected to his claim.
“Come, now. Hardly ruined. ’Twas only a kiss.” This wasn’t how Oliver wanted this conversation to begin. He’d not slept a wink all night as he’d weighed his options and considered every possible outcome. Marriage was impossible, and abandonment only added dishonor to his list of faults. The situation at the House of Lords hadn’t helped his mood.
“By an unmarried man onto the lips of an unmarried young woman in my care.” Dunwoody looked down and shuffled some papers around on his desk. “She may be from the colonies, but do not forget she is the granddaughter of a duke. And you, Lord Winchcombe, are of questionable morals.”
“A rumor that is naught but a nuisance,” Oliver said with as much conviction as he could muster. So there it was. One foray into Society and already the scar that branded him was to be his measure as a man and a peer. He’d expected it, but it still stung. “I will prevail,” he added.
“It’s not your opinion that counts.” Dunwoody avoided Oliver’s eyes as he spoke. Guilty conscience? Oliver could only wonder. But, no, Dunwoody was staring down into the open desk drawer where a letter lay open atop the stack of correspondence.
“I am neither insane nor marked by Old Scratch himself.” Oliver leaned forward as he spoke, daring Dunwoody to disagree. The older man absentmindedly traced his finger along the edge of the letter as Oliver let the silence stretch out between them. Whatever happened in this office today, Oliver vowed that he would get a look at that letter.
“I don’t believe in such things myself, of course.” Dunwoody finally met Oliver’s eyes but kept his hand upon the letter. “Bumpkins, tenants, and graziers, they’ll hunt down a witch whenever milk curdles. Your behavior the other evening, however, begs explanation.”
“It was…unwise of me to indulge myself in that manner. My only excuse is that the young lady had done me a good turn and I was overcome with gratitude.” It was funny how most people assumed his eyesight was adversely affected by the appearance of his scarred eye. Had Dunwoody known better, he would have taken greater pains to hide that letter. From his seat, Oliver already recognized the handwriting as that of his own father, Halwyn Chalford. The realization fueled Oliver’s determination.
“A good turn, eh? Did that occur in the garden where we found her dancing slippers?”
“They didn’t fit her, you see, so we…” He let his voice trail off. His alibi of thwarting Dunwoody’s daughter’s plan to trap Penry would not be well received. It was quite possible Dunwoody had no idea of the scheming that had taken place under his roof. A change of tactic was in order. The longer he could keep Dunwoody talking, the better chance he had at reading that letter. “Regardless,” Oliver began again as he stood. “I have come to make amends.”
“Her father sent instructions for her care.” Dunwoody motioned to the stack of correspondence as he spoke. “There is no need for you to trouble yourself.” He retrieved a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from another desk drawer, a clear signal that he considered their serious business at an end.
“Hmm.”
No need? Oliver tried to hide his shock by pulling out his pocket watch and noting the time. Ten minutes past two. He’d been dismissed in record time, considering the importance of the issue at hand. Why wasn’t Dunwoody pushing for a tidy betrothal? Now there were two letters of Dunwoody’s that he badly wanted to read.
It wasn’t, he convinced himself, because he entertained the notion he and Jewel might suit. But, rather, because he could then tell Penry when he asked—and Penry would ask—that he had negotiated with Dunwoody for the girl to the best of his ability. She was the granddaughter of a duke, didn’t matter which one, and he was from a family rumored stained with madness. No matter that the allegations were false; she’d never have him. He reminded himself that his presence here was a formality and nothing more.
As Dunwoody fussed with his pipe, Oliver stepped to the side of the desk, maneuvering himself closer to the curious correspondence. A letter that would allow Dunwoody to entertain such a cavalier attitude about his wife’s niece must be a powerful piece of writing indeed, but it was the missive written in his father’s own hand that had him more worried.
He’d taken over his father’s formal correspondence three years ago when the old man’s hands had begun to shake too hard to hold a quill. He could not make out the date, but it had to be an old letter. So why had it made its way to the top of Dunwoody’s correspondence today? Oliver’s father’s handwriting had always been chicken scratch, the words deuced difficult to make out upside down. The numbers, however, were quite clear.
Fifty thousand pounds clear.
“Did her father set aside funds to be used as a dowry?” Oliver floated the question out like bait, hoping to distract Dunwoody into revealing something useful. Let Dunwoody think him a fortune hunter, for there was something very strange going on. The stranger it became, the more Oliver was determined to get to the bottom of it.
“My wife’s brother thought a certain amount would be used for the purpose of a dowry if necessary.” Dunwoody swept all the papers into a drawer, pushed it closed, and turned the lock.
Damn.
“Has he set any other terms?” Oliver forced himself to turn his attention back to Dunwoody.
“No.” Dun
woody’s single word answer hung in the air between them, followed by an exhaled puff of smoke.
“Well, then, if you would please summon the girl so I might speak to her. With your permission, I would like to advance my suit.” Oliver waved the gray cloud of smoke away from his face and tried not to think of her lips as he waited.
“You’ve wasted a trip, Winchcombe. She is no longer a member of this household.”
“What do you mean?” He dodged another puff of smoke. Dunwoody’s tobacco was stale and the smoke foully acrid.
“We couldn’t keep her here. I have two daughters to find suitable husbands for—the girl’s presence sullied their reputations as well. And her father’s sedition can no longer be overlooked.”
“Sedition?” The conversation, already convoluted, became even more so.
“My wife’s brother has aligned himself with a group of upstarts who call themselves the Sons of Liberty. That’s why he sent his daughter to come stay with us. Giving her a little Town polish was just a ruse. With the looming possibility for outright war, he wanted her far from it.”
“Perhaps I could write to her father and explain…” If the charges were true, and Oliver knew how easily damaging accusations could be made, then Jewel needed a husband now more than ever. A husband who was a peer and a loyal English subject would be all the better for her. Even one who was accused of lunacy.
“No point. Her father was arrested just after the girl’s departure and is now enjoying all the comforts of a prison hulk somewhere in Wallabout Bay. So, you see, her impudence and his treasonous activities could no longer be borne. She was sent to a family property in the north.”
“North? How far north?”
“Scotland.”
“When did she leave?” Jumping to his feet, Oliver sent his chair crashing to the floor. “Does she know about her father?”
“Sent her off first thing this morning on a coach from the George in Southwark.” Dunwoody shook his head in answer to the second question as he frowned down at the fallen chair. “Here, now! You’ve dodged a bullet this time, Lord Winchcombe. I suggest you refrain from accosting any other young women this Season. I hope your other concern is resolved as tidily as this one. Pursue this matter and you’ll find other gentlemen aren’t as forgiving as I am.”