Slightly Dangerous

by Mary Balogh

  “Of course Wulfric loves,” Eve said. “He had a hand in bringing Aidan and me together even though we were already married when he did it. And I believe he did as much for Freyja and Joshua and for Rannulf and Judith as well. It would be easy enough to say he did it simply for the family name and pride, but I have long believed he really cares. And what other possible motive than love could he have had for coming to Oxfordshire to make sure I did not lose Davy and Becky when my cousin would have taken them from me? But do you really think Mrs. Derrick is the woman to break down all of Wulfric’s defenses, Rachel?”

  Freyja snorted. “Of course she is,” she said unexpectedly. “I cannot understand why we did not all see it sooner. Was he not at one of Lady Renable’s house parties last summer? Mrs. Derrick was probably a guest there herself. And have we not wondered why Wulf would deign to rescue her from the Serpentine disaster when according to all accounts half the fashionable world was there to lend her assistance if he did not? It is quite unlike him to so expose himself to gossip and laughter. And why did he invite her family here for Easter when none of us are aware of any deep friendship he has with any of them except perhaps Lord Mowbury? Why did he invite us here? It is usually we who invite ourselves.”

  “You are not saying—” Alleyne began.

  “And why,” Freyja continued, sawing at the air with one hand, “did he line us all up in the hall this afternoon when it was merely Lord Renable’s carriage that had been spotted approaching? We were all mystified at the time.”

  “Deuce take it,” Alleyne said, “you are saying. Women have marvelous imaginations, I must say. They leap from point A to point D without even a sideways glance at points B and C. You believe Wulf already has a tendre for Mrs. Derrick, Free?”

  “It is altogether likely,” Rachel said, turning her head to gaze into his eyes.

  “Well,” Aidan said briskly, “I believe we are all agreed that Aunt Rochester’s ill-conceived notion that Amy Hutchinson and Wulf would suit needs to be foiled—for both their sakes. And, if putting Mrs. Derrick more in his way will accomplish that purpose, then I am all for it. If he should also happen to fall head over ears for her—though I do believe that is something of a stretch even for the most active of imaginations—then I am very prepared to buy Eve new clothes for the wedding.”

  “What I think,” Joshua said, “for what it is worth when I am talking to Bedwyns and know perfectly well that they invariably do the opposite of what one suggests—what I think is that we should leave well enough alone. I cannot think of anything much more ludicrous than a band of well-meaning Bedwyns plotting together to save Wulfric—Bewcastle, for the love of God!—from one unlikely marriage prospect only to thrust another even more unlikely one in his way.”

  “My point exactly.” Gervase laughed.

  “Ludicrous?” Freyja said haughtily. “You are accusing us of being ludicrous, Joshua? And you think it funny, Gervase?”

  Aidan got to his feet.

  “I believe,” he said, “it is time we all went to bed. There is only one thing more alarming than matchmaking Bedwyns and that is squabbling Bedwyns. Fists will be flying next, and there are two or three ladies present.”

  “Two or—” Freyja jumped to her feet, her eyes sparking.

  But Aidan held up one hand and silence fell. He could be almost as formidable as Wulfric when he chose, and he had the added advantage of having been a cavalry colonel for several years.

  “You know very well, Freyja,” he said, “that in any fight yours would be the first fists flying. To bed now, and we will see what tomorrow brings. My guess is that Wulf will foil Aunt Rochester and avoid Mrs. Derrick without any effort whatsoever more strenuous than the raising of an eyebrow and without the slightest assistance on our part.” He offered his arm to Eve.

  “Some people,” Freyja said with a toss of her head, “always have to have the last word.”

  Rannulf and Alleyne looked pointedly at each other and then at her, their lips pressed tightly together.

  Joshua grinned and wrapped one arm about her waist.

  WHILE THE BEDWYNS were meeting in the drawing room, Christine was entertaining Hermione in her bedchamber. Her sister-in-law had caught up with her on the stairs as they all retired for the night and had then invited herself inside.

  Christine looked warily at her and offered her a chair while she went to perch on the side of the bed.

  “Oh,” Hermione said, looking about, “what a perfectly delightful room. It must be one of the largest and best bedchambers in the house.”

  Christine had not considered that. She had assumed that all the upper rooms were similarly grand. But Hermione did not pursue the topic. She sat down on the chair and regarded her sister-in-law gravely.

  “Christine,” she said, “Basil and I have talked and wondered about this invitation. Our acquaintance with his grace is really quite slight, and he has never been known to host a house party at Lindsey Hall. Why us? It is true that he has a friendship with Hector, but Melanie and Bertie are no more his close associates than we are, despite the fact that Hector brought him to Schofield last summer. No—we have been drawn to the conclusion that you are the reason for our being invited here.”

  “Me?” Christine said.

  “Strange and almost incredible as it seems,” Hermione said, “I do believe—and Basil agrees with me—that his grace is infatuated with you.”

  Christine bit her lower lip.

  “It is clear,” Hermione continued, “that the Marchioness of Rochester has other plans for him, and she has considerable influence. And his family would never countenance such a match, you know. Neither would he. If he is infatuated, he will offer only dalliance.”

  “You are trying to warn me, then,” Christine asked, “not to get my hopes too high?”

  Her sister-in-law’s brows snapped together.

  “I am asking you,” she said, “not to make a fool of yourself, Christine—or of us. You will never be the Duchess of Bewcastle—the very idea is absurd. But if you get up to any of your usual tricks, your ambition will soon be quite obvious to the marchioness and all of his grace’s brothers and sisters and the embarrassing vulgarity of it will reflect upon us.”

  “My usual tricks.” Christine felt herself grow cold.

  “Pretending to fall out of a tree when he was close by,” Hermione said, her voice bitter and unhappy. “Pretending to fall accidentally into the Serpentine when he just happened to be riding by. Just happening to be sitting in the laburnum alley when he chose to walk there. Pretending to be badly hurt when Hector had merely stepped on your foot and not returning to the ballroom for a whole hour. And attracting the admiration of almost every other gentleman at that house party at the same time. The Earl of Kitredge even proposed marriage to you in London. But you refused him, I hear. Why be a countess when you believe you could be a duchess?”

  “I think,” Christine said, “you had better leave, Hermione.”

  Her sister-in-law got to her feet and crossed to the door without another word. But it had always been like this, Christine thought suddenly—at least, it had been for the last few years of Oscar’s life and after his death and last summer and again now. They always avoided really speaking with each other.

  “Wait!” she said, and Hermione looked back at her over her shoulder.

  Christine got up off the bed and crossed to the window. She threw back the curtains, but of course there was nothing to see outside—only fine drops of drizzle on the windowpanes and darkness beyond.

  “There was a time,” she said, “when you used to delight in my not-infrequent disasters. You used to tell me that the ton was delighted with me despite the laughter I provoked. You told me that laughter was good for the soul and the ton. You used to tell me that I had a gift of attraction—that ladies liked me, that gentlemen liked and even admired me because it was safe for them to do so, my being a married lady. Oscar loved me and I loved him, and we really were a happy family. You told me I wa
s the sister you had never had but had always wanted. You were the sister I needed to replace my own, who were far away. What changed? I never understood it. It was like a nightmare from which I could not awake. Suddenly all my social gaffes were embarrassing and humiliating for you all. And suddenly every gentleman with whom I conversed or danced or exchanged smiles was a victim of my flirtatious wiles. And not even just flirtation. Suddenly I acquired a whole string of clandestine lovers. Why did that change happen?”

  Hermione was still looking at her over her shoulder. There was a short silence.

  “You tell me, Christine,” she said at last. “You tired of Oscar, I suppose. You realized your power to attract larger fish. You had no feeling for him—or us.”

  Christine blinked back tears.

  “I always loved Oscar,” she said. “Even in the last years, when he became difficult and when he started to gamble too recklessly and lost all his fortune, I never stopped caring for him. I was his wife. I never ever thought of straying.”

  “Well,” Hermione said. “I would like to believe you, Christine. But we both know that is a lie. If it were not, Oscar would still be alive.”

  “You cannot believe I was guilty on that occasion,” Christine said. “I begged you at the time to ask Justin. Why did you not do so? He could have confirmed my innocence.”

  “Of course we asked Justin,” Hermione said wearily. “And of course he protested your innocence—over and over again and with great indignation over the fact that we could doubt you for a moment. But he always did defend you, did he not? No matter what, Justin was always there to be your champion, to deny every charge against you. Justin has always been in love with you, Christine. He would perjure himself to the grave rather than have anyone believe ill of you.”

  “I see,” Christine said. “And so I am guilty. His very defenses have made me so. Poor Justin. His efforts on my behalf have always had the opposite effect than the one he intended. You must believe what you will, then. But I can relieve your mind of one concern. I am not here out of any ambition to be the Duchess of Bewcastle. I have already refused the position and will refuse again if the offer is renewed. I am perhaps even more sensible than you and Basil of the fact that it would be a match made in hell—for both of us. I am longing for the day when I can go back home and resume the life that has made me happy for almost three years—though I mourned Oscar deeply for the first of those years.”

  “Christine.” Unexpectedly Hermione’s eyes too filled with tears. “I do wish to believe the best of you now. Basil and I both do. You are Oscar’s widow.”

  Christine nodded. There seemed to be nothing to say. Some sort of peace was being offered, she supposed—again.

  Hermione left the room without another word, leaving Christine with the unenviable task of trying to get to sleep in a strange bed in a strange house while her conversation with Hermione—and her quarrel with the duke—buzzed around endlessly in her brain.

  17

  THEY ALL WENT TO CHURCH THE FOLLOWING MORNING for the Good Friday service. A few of the older people went by carriage, but most of them walked, since the weather had taken a distinct turn for the better.

  Christine walked with Justin. The duke, she noticed, had Miss Hutchinson on his arm, though Lord and Lady Aidan stayed close to them. The Marchioness of Rochester was, of course, promoting a match between the pair. Christine heartily sympathized with Miss Hutchinson, who was both a pretty and a sweet-natured young lady—but no match for the duke.

  It was as if Justin sensed her thoughts.

  “Poor lady,” he said, nodding in their direction. “I wonder if she realizes that being a duchess comes at a high price. But I daresay her aunt will explain before the nuptials—if Bewcastle can be brought to the point, that is.”

  Christine did not comment. She did not want to discuss the duke even with her dearest friend—especially after last night. But he continued.

  “Lady Falconbridge will certainly understand,” he said. “I daresay she does not really expect that he will marry her anyway. And I suppose his mistress will learn to understand—she will not have much choice, will she, short of leaving his employment, which I daresay is rather lucrative.”

  “Justin!” Christine said sharply. “Do you usually speak to ladies about such things?”

  He looked instantly contrite. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “But you knew about Lady Falconbridge, and he has had his mistress for so many years that I assumed everyone knew. Foolish of me—you are indeed a lady. But you were the wise one, Chrissie.” He patted her hand on his arm. “You would have none of him. I don’t suppose he liked that.”

  “I am going to change the subject now,” she said firmly. “Hector tells me he is going on his travels again soon and that you may be going with him. Is that true?”

  He pulled a face. “Only if he decides to go somewhere civilized,” he said. “Italy, perhaps.”

  Christine listened with only half an ear. She really had not needed to know about the Duke of Bewcastle’s women. How very annoying of Justin to treat her like a male comrade rather than as a lady. What the duke did was none of her business, of course, even if he employed a whole harem of women. But she could not help remembering his saying that if he ever married, his wife would be the only woman to share his bed for the rest of his life. Somehow she had believed him. But it did not matter anyway, did it? She was never going to be his wife. She was quite determined about that even if he had brought her here to court her.

  Was that why he had invited her? It seemed just too incredible.

  She avoided him all morning and sat far from him at both breakfast and luncheon. She was, however, thrown unexpectedly into his company again during the afternoon. Lord and Lady Aidan announced their intention of taking their children for a walk outside, Lord and Lady Rannulf decided to join them with theirs, and before another minute had passed almost everyone had decided to go out. They all dispersed to fetch their outdoor things and their children, having agreed to meet downstairs in the hall. Christine was delighted at the prospect of some fresh air and at the discovery that the Bedwyns shared her love of the outdoors.

  She joined Audrey and Sir Lewis in the hall and smiled at all the young children, who darted about with caged energy that was about to be unleashed. She hugged Pauline and Pamela, who came dashing up to greet her before darting off again to rejoin some young companions. Justin, who was in conversation with Bertie, indicated that he would join her in a moment. The Marchioness of Rochester, who was not going out with them, had come down to the great hall anyway to see them on their way—and to do some organizing.

  “I have been telling Amy about the pretty path that connects the wilderness walk with the lake, Wulfric,” she said in a voice that was clearly accustomed to command. “You must be sure to show it to her.”

  He bowed stiffly to her and to poor Miss Hutchinson, who almost visibly shrank from the prospect of spending the afternoon in his company.

  “That will have to wait for another day, I am afraid, Aunt,” the Countess of Rosthorn said, tucking her arm firmly through Miss Hutchinson’s and smiling apologetically at both the marchioness and the duke. “I have promised Amy that we will talk about her presentation to the queen in a few weeks’ time. I shall pass along to her my own experiences and advice, for what they are worth.”

  The countess’s husband, the earl with the attractive French accent, had a little boy astride his shoulders—his son Jacques. Christine had visited the nursery before church and got to know all the children, including the babies.

  “Oh, poor Wulfric!” Lady Alleyne cried. “Now you have no partner. Perhaps Mrs. Derrick will take pity on you.”

  Justin, who had been threading his way through the crowd toward Christine, stopped short, and the Duke of Bewcastle turned and inclined his head to her.

  “Ma’am?” he said, offering his arm. “Will you? Though it would appear that you have been given little choice.”

  Neither had he, she th
ought, casting a rueful glance at Justin as she took his grace’s arm and they led the way from the house. She very carefully did not look Hermione and Basil’s way.

  “It would also appear,” he said, “that the ladies in my family are in league against my aunt. I wonder if it is on Miss Hutchinson’s account or mine.”

  “Undoubtedly Miss Hutchinson’s,” she said. “She is clearly terrified of you.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance but she did not respond to it.

  “It is, of course, for your sake,” he said, “that I agreed to participate in this walk at all. However, I do not intend to be overrun with infants or to have my eardrums assaulted by their shrieks every step of the way. They and their parents are heading toward the lawns and the trees. We will lead those people who are not so encumbered to the wilderness walk.”

  “I suppose,” she said, “you never allow your peace to be disturbed.”

  “Not if I can help it,” he agreed. “And I usually can. I have been looking forward to showing you the park. I suppose it is even more picturesque during the summer, but there is a certain fresh beauty about it in the spring—and the weather is kind today.”

  “I love winter landscapes too,” she said. “They have all the appearance of death but all the potential for resurrection. One understands the full power and mystery and glory of life during winter. And then comes spring. Oh, how I adore springtime! I cannot imagine your park looking lovelier than it does now.”

  As they turned off a long lawn to the west side of the house in order to move uphill into what must be the wilderness walk, they passed some cherry trees that were in bloom. The children and their parents, a noisy, ebullient group, continued along the grass.

  “I believe, Mrs. Derrick,” the duke said, “you are an eternal optimist. You find hope even in death.”

  “The whole of life would be a tragedy if one did not understand that it is, in fact, indestructible,” she said.

  They followed a path upward through trees sporting their new, bright greenery and some darker evergreens until they turned onto a more level path that wound its way between rhododendron bushes and taller trees. Wild daffodils and primroses carpeted the ground in more open places. Occasionally a break in the trees gave them a view down to the house or the park or surrounding countryside. There was a large lake to the east of the house, surrounded by trees, an island in the middle of it.