Slightly Dangerous

by Mary Balogh

  “Quite so,” Wulfric said, sounding bored.

  “I suppose you are annoyed with her for paying so much attention to him,” Magnus said. “One cannot fail to notice—if you will forgive my saying so—that you admire her yourself. I don’t blame you for being a trifle irritated. But she is my dearest friend, and I must speak up in her defense. You must not blame her when men like Kitredge and Attingsborough want her too. It is not her fault. She has always had that effect on men. She cannot help it. Oscar made her life miserable by accusing her all their married life of flirting and even going beyond flirtation. Hermione and Basil accused her of the same thing. And, of course, there was all the cover-up over Oscar’s death, which they blamed on her too. It was not her fault. I just want to make sure that you understand that.”

  “It would appear to me,” Wulfric said coldly, “that you protest too much. In my experience there is rarely smoke where there is not also fire.”

  Magnus sighed. “What do you expect me to say?” he asked. “Chrissie is my friend. And of course she is innocent. I would defend her with my last breath. Even if there had been hundreds of instances since I have known her instead of just dozens, I would have believed her every time. That is what friends do.”

  Wulfric, who had taken the safest route to Alvesley for the sake of Mrs. Derrick, who was not a good rider, felt no such inhibitions on the way back. They were trotting across a field and might have turned their course slightly to pass through an open gate, but he did not swerve from his path. He spurred his horse forward and made for the highest, thickest part of the hedge. Noble soared over it with at least a foot to spare. Wulfric gritted his teeth and waited for the other man to clear the hedge too and catch up with him.

  “Goodness,” Magnus said with a laugh, “I have not done anything so reckless for a long while.”

  “I believe,” Wulfric said, his voice steely, his cold eyes resting on the other man, “you are in love with Mrs. Derrick yourself. I believe you would say anything in her defense. I believe you would even perjure yourself if it were necessary.”

  Justin Magnus rode in silence for a while. “Trust is as essential to friendship as it is to love, you see,” he said. “I trust Chrissie. I always have and always will. If you love her, Bewcastle, or are in any way fond of her, then you will trust her too—even when she appears to have been indiscreet. You are a man of the world. Oscar was not, and neither was he strong. He wanted her all to himself. Not that she would ever actually do anything indiscreet. I am not saying that—quite the contrary, in fact. Chrissie is the soul of honor. But sometimes it just seems otherwise—as it did the day before Oscar died, when she was alone with a man at Winwood Abbey for a whole hour with no one else there to chaperon her. I tried to give her an alibi because I trusted her when she said nothing had happened. But even so, she had been indiscreet, you see—innocently indiscreet. But I am talking too much. You would not be interested in that particular incident.”

  “Quite so,” Wulfric said faintly.

  “I have promised to keep you from her as much as I can,” Magnus said with a frank, rueful grin. “That is why I am riding with you now. I suppose the idea of being a duchess tempts her—just as the chance of being the Countess of Kitredge did. It would be quite a coup for a schoolmaster’s daughter after all, would it not? But at the same time, you see, she is afraid of you—afraid that you would be stricter with her than Oscar was. She needs to be free to . . .”

  “Flirt?” Wulfric suggested.

  “That is a word I do not like.” Magnus sounded annoyed. “Chrissie never flirts. She needs to be free to be herself.”

  “Free to pursue her, er, friendships with other gentlemen,” Wulfric said.

  “Well, yes, if you like,” Magnus conceded. “But innocent friendships.”

  “Quite so.” The ride from Alvesley had never seemed half so long, Wulfric thought as Lindsey Hall came into sight at last. “But I find this conversation tedious, Magnus. Contrary to what you seem to believe, my interest in Mrs. Derrick is really quite minimal. And of course I do not believe one word in ten of what you say about her. Your loyalty is admirable, but the woman is clearly a strumpet.”

  He turned his horse thankfully onto the elm drive leading up to the house.

  “Your grace!” Magnus sounded shocked to the core. “I would have you know that you are speaking of my cousin by marriage and my friend.”

  “Whom you would defend with your life,” Wulfric said. “I understand perfectly. A man who is besotted will believe anything he wishes to believe—or rather will ignore anything he does not wish to believe. If you have ridden home with me not only to protect Mrs. Derrick from my oppressive company but also to plead her case with me, you have failed miserably. And that is my final word on the matter.”

  “But—”

  Wulfric spurred his horse on ahead of the other and made for the stable block.

  Never feel anger. It is counterproductive. It is also unnecessary.

  If something needs to be said, say it. If something needs to be done, do it.

  Never feel anger. Above all else, never show anger.

  Anger is a mark of weakness.

  The old lessons had been well learned. But today his mastery of them was being severely tested. Today he felt the urge to kill—with his bare hands.

  Today he was very, very angry.

  THE MARQUESS AND Marchioness of Hallmere were about to sing a duet, though the marchioness had protested when it was first suggested until goaded into it by two of her brothers.

  “Lord love us,” Lord Rannulf said, grinning, “you have never taught Free to sing, Joshua?”

  “I have heard, Ralf,” Lord Alleyne said, “that in the damp climate of Cornwall saws quickly become rusty.”

  Bertie and Hector laughed heartily, the Marchioness of Rochester raised her lorgnette to her eyes, Mrs. Pritchard, her face wreathed in smiles, wagged a finger at Lord Alleyne and reminded him that the Welsh were renowned for their singing and their damp climate, and Lady Freyja got to her feet with awful dignity.

  “Josh,” she said, “we will sing. And then, if anyone has more rusty saw jokes, I will poke a few noses.”

  “No one does it better, sweetheart,” he said, laughing. “Singing, I mean.”

  They were all entertaining themselves for the evening. Miss Hutchinson had played the pianoforte, Lady Rannulf had brought Desdemona alive for them with a startling talent for acting, Hector had given one of his rare performances of magic and sleight of hand, and now the duet was about to begin.

  Christine was trying to enjoy herself. There was really no reason why she should not. It had been a full, active day. After the morning ride and visit and luncheon spent in conversation with Baron Weston, she had gone back outside with most of the younger people and their children. She had frolicked on a spacious lawn with them, playing a ball game with the older children and a few adults while others played ring-around-the-rosy with the infants and the Earl of Rosthorn rocked his baby in his arms and Lady Alleyne cuddled the Hallmeres’. Then she had gone for a long walk with Justin.

  She had certainly been wise in avoiding Bewcastle and ignoring his attentions, Justin had told her with a sympathetic pat on her hand. The man was downright morose and would make a horribly jealous husband to some poor lady. He had been irritated over the fact that the Marquess of Attingsborough had escorted Chrissie out of the house and helped her into the saddle and then spoke a few words of farewell to her.

  “Which was grossly unfair of him,” he had added, “since Whitleaf was doing as much for Miss Hutchinson. But he fancies you, you see, Chrissie, and so wants all your attention for himself. I told him in no uncertain terms that you are a free spirit, that you need to be free to be you. I don’t care if he liked it or not.”

  The duke had remained at the house all afternoon—as far as Christine knew anyway. And though he had appeared at the dinner table—looking arctic and taking almost no part in the conversation—he had not come to th
e drawing room when the gentlemen joined the ladies there.

  It did not matter to Christine. Of course it did not. It had been foolish of her to quarrel with him yesterday and then to confide in him. His own revelations this morning about his family and neighbors meant nothing at all. He had merely been making conversation.

  And then, just as the marquess and marchioness were seating themselves on the bench before the pianoforte, Christine felt a light touch on her shoulder and looked up to find a footman bending over her to speak softly in her ear.

  “His grace begs the favor of your company in the library, ma’am,” he said.

  Christine looked at him in surprise. But then she could see that Hermione and Basil were on their feet and making their way toward the door. They had been invited too? She rose and made her way from the room as the music began.

  The three of them went downstairs together after exchanging somewhat embarrassed looks. Although there had been no open hostility during the past couple of days, they had kept aloof from one another as if by mutual consent.

  “What is this about?” Hermione asked.

  “I daresay Bewcastle wishes to be sociable but does not wish to sit in a crowded drawing room,” Basil said.

  Christine said nothing.

  The same footman who had come to fetch them went on ahead of them and opened the library doors when they arrived there.

  “Lord and Lady Elrick and Mrs. Derrick, your grace,” he said.

  It was an enormous apartment, Christine saw, smelling of leather and wood and candles. There must be thousands of books here, she estimated. They filled bookshelves from the floor to the high ceiling. There was a huge desk close to the windows and a circle of large chairs about the fireplace, in which a fire burned.

  The Duke of Bewcastle stood before the fire, his back to it, looking cold and forbidding in his black and white evening clothes. He was not alone. Justin was rising to his feet from one of the leather chairs beside the fireplace, looking surprised. But then he smiled.

  The duke bowed and greeted the new arrivals and offered them seats, all without moving from his place or in any way relaxing his frosty demeanor. But then, he rarely did.

  Christine looked very directly at him. How dared he be irritated this morning at her speaking with the Marquess of Attingsborough and allowing him to help her mount her horse. How dared he! For a moment his glance met hers, and hers did not waver. He was the one who looked away.

  As well he might, nasty man! Did he believe he owned her merely because she had agreed to come to Lindsey Hall and had been in private conversation with him a few times?

  “We have just been marvelously entertained in the drawing room,” Hermione said. “Lady Rannulf is a magnificent actress. For a few minutes I quite forgot that she was not indeed poor Desdemona about to be murdered by Othello. And Hector performed some of his magic tricks. I always watch with the greatest concentration, determined that this time I will see exactly how he does them, but I never can. How can a piece of string become two pieces and then one again when he never puts his hands near his pockets and has his sleeves rolled back?”

  “Hector has had that skill since he was a boy,” Justin said with a laugh. “He used to drive Mel and Audrey and me to distraction in the nursery, but he would never let us in on the secret.”

  “It is all illusion,” the Duke of Bewcastle said. “The acting and the magic. It is the trick of making the beholder take the appearance for the reality. It is something that takes dedication and skill.”

  “Well,” Justin said, “it is beyond my understanding. But I am sorry to have missed Lady Rannulf’s performance. Perhaps she will repeat it some other evening.”

  “Some people, for example,” the duke said, ignoring Justin, “have the skill of saying one thing and meaning another.”

  “Irony can frequently be amusing,” Basil said. “You are right, Bewcastle. Some people are masters of the art, and some of our greatest writers use it to perfection. Alexander Pope leaps to mind. ‘The Rape of the Lock’ has always set me to chuckling.”

  “And some people,” the duke continued as if Basil had not spoken at all, “have the gift of speaking the truth and convincing their listeners that it is a lie.”

  Hermione, Basil, and Justin looked politely at him, having nothing to say this time. Christine continued to stare steadily and coldly at him. He was arrogant and self-absorbed, she thought. She did not know now why she had come to think that perhaps there was more to him. Some of the illusion of which he spoke, perhaps?

  She had no idea why she had been invited here.

  “It has been my distinct impression,” the duke said, “that Mrs. Derrick is generally considered a flirt.”

  “The devil!” Justin jumped to his feet.

  Hermione’s hand went to the pearls about her neck.

  “I believe you owe my sister-in-law an apology, Bewcastle,” Basil said stiffly.

  Christine sat frozen to her chair.

  The duke grasped the handle of an evening quizzing glass in his long fingers.

  “I trust you will all hear me out,” he said, sounding almost bored. “Do be seated, Magnus.”

  “Not,” Justin said, “until you have apologized to Chrissie.”

  The ducal glass was raised all the way to the ducal eye.

  “Did I say that I considered her a flirt?” he asked haughtily.

  Justin sat, but it was clear to see that he was furious. Christine smiled reassuringly at him before returning her gaze to the duke again, hoping it was as steely as his own.

  “It is what you called her yourself, ma’am,” he said with a slight inclination of the head in Hermione’s direction, “at Schofield last year. However, I must confess that that was the only occasion on which I have heard her actively called a flirt. I have, however, heard a tedious number of times that she is not a flirt.”

  His silver eyes came to rest on Christine for a few moments. She glared steadily back. She would dearly have liked to jump to her feet and crack her hand across his cheek, but she doubted her legs would support her. And she was so short of breath that she was almost gasping.

  “You told me, ma’am,” the duke said to Hermione, “that Mrs. Derrick had flirted with every gentleman at the house party and that she had flirted with me by walking in the laburnum alley with me in order to win a wager she had with the other young ladies. I beg you to try to recall what put both ideas into your head. Was it entirely your own observation and conclusion? Or did someone so forcefully and passionately assure you that she was not flirting that your suspicions were aroused and your conclusion drawn?”

  “You see?” Justin cried before Hermione could answer. “I told you this morning that this is the way it has always been, Bewcastle. You are referring to me, are you not? I wish I had never spoken up in Chrissie’s defense. I always seem to have done more harm than good. Always! But this is it! I’ll never do it again.” He looked across at Christine, apparently on the verge of tears. “I am sorry, Chrissie.”

  But she was looking at him, arrested.

  “We all know,” Hermione said gently, “that Justin is very fond of Christine. Perhaps even in love with her. And we have always known that he can see no wrong in her. He would defend her even if he had actually witnessed some blatant indiscretion. It is an endearing quality in him. But he hardly inspires belief. Pardon me, Justin. I know you have always meant well.”

  “If there is one word apart from flirtation that seems to have become associated with Mrs. Derrick through all the stories I have heard of her marriage and through all that I have known of her in the last year,” the duke continued, “it is the word Justin.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Justin jumped to his feet again. “You filthy—”

  The Duke of Bewcastle, quite unperturbed, had his glass to his eye again.

  “I am suggesting that you sit down, Magnus,” he said, and, incredibly, Justin sat.

  “I would ask you to think, Elrick,” the duke said
, “about all those occasions during her marriage when Mrs. Derrick was perceived by her husband and by you and Lady Elrick to have been flirting or behaving in an indiscreet manner with other gentlemen and ask yourself whether you or your brother or your wife ever saw incontrovertible evidence that she was guilty or ever received any complaint from another person. I ask you to remember if you ever directly heard any unsavory gossip about her.”

  Christine was feeling cold even though she was well within range of the fire’s heat. And she was no longer looking at the duke. She was watching Justin.

  “I hardly think our private family business is your concern, Bewcastle,” Basil said.

  Christine could hear Hermione swallowing. “It was Justin who always told us,” she said. “He brought the news from the gentlemen’s clubs and other places, gossip that would not be spoken when Basil or Oscar was present. He was always angry and upset. He always defended Christine and insisted that there was no truth in any of the stories or rumors. He always . . .”

  She set one hand over her mouth.

  “Justin,” Christine said, “what have you done?”

  It was all very simple really. Very, very simple. And almost undetectable.

  “I was told this morning,” the duke said, “as I rode home from Alvesley with Magnus that Mrs. Derrick must not be blamed for responding to the attentions of the Marquess of Attingsborough or accused of being a flirt, since the man concerned is an experienced rake. I was told she cannot help the effect she has on men like Attingsborough and Kitredge and myself. That is just the way she is—though she is understandably ambitious to win for herself the highest-ranking title she can acquire. I was told that if he knew of hundreds of indiscretions of Mrs. Derrick’s instead of dozens, he would defend her every time because that is what friends do. I was told that though Mrs. Derrick was alone for more than an hour with a gentleman the day before her husband’s death, he had willingly provided her with an alibi because he trusted her.”