She wouldn’t doubt him as a potential mate if she hadn’t been on the receiving end of his distrust so early in their friendship. When with him, when hearing the timbre of his voice, when seeing his eyes light with amusement, all she wanted was to be with him. Her rational mind clicked into place once apart, though, questioning everything.
This was no easy decision for her. If he were to offer for her, and she accepted, she would never be alone again, which could be both a curse and a gift. If she declined, would he eventually marry someone else? Would she be able to stomach seeing him arrive to Town with another woman on his arms?
Almost laughing aloud at her worries should he propose when he had yet made no indications of wishing to do so, she turned her attention back to the present moment only to realize the park had steadily filled with children and nannies, as well as groups of riders leading their horses to the riverbank. She spotted her maid sitting on a park bench a few feet from her. So lost in thought, Liz hadn’t noticed herself stopping by the river or leaning against the tree to watch a family of swans.
After collecting her maid, she headed back to the townhouse. In three weeks, she would return home, and Sebastian would return to Northumberland to his legend-steeped castle, and that was that. She would be happy with the time she had spent getting to know him, and then she would move on with her life, putting him and his hypnotic eyes behind her.
Chapter 9
Upon returning to the townhouse, Cecil took her bonnet and caraco walking-jacket, and directed her to the drawing room where her aunt was entertaining another gaggle of ladies. She could hear muffled voices coming from behind the closed door as she approached.
Just as she reached to open the door, she overheard one of the women say, “He was a dreadful man, and I don’t expect his son is any different.”
Oh, no! Were the women talking about Annick? She sincerely hoped not. Annick was her least favorite person, but that opinion was hers and hers alone. Surely her sister wasn’t betrothed to someone considered dreadful by others. As far as she could tell from the events they had attended post-betrothal, Society was enamored with him, far from considering him dreadful.
She stilled her hand against the door, guiltily leaning to press her ear to the wood.
The haughty voice weaved in and out of audibility. “A tyrant, I tell you. A mystery how his young wife died…speculate her death—well, it would be indelicate to say…”
Her aunt’s voice replied loudly and bristly, “He seems perfectly amiable to me. Don’t let me think you’re being sneaky, Esmeralda, and trying to say naughty things in hopes he will pay attention to Miss Constance instead of my dear Lizzie. He’s taken a shine to her, I believe.”
Lizbeth’s hair stood on end at the mention of her name. Were they talking about Sebastian? If so, whose wife died? She found it difficult to follow the conversation from the wrong side of the door, especially when half the words were muted. Was Sebastian widowed? She could hardly hear the continued chatter over the pounding of her heart.
Huffs and harrumphs filtered through the door. “I wouldn’t dare let Constance anywhere near that man. I don’t care how many titles he has. Like father like son, I always say.”
“I, personally, have no reason to dislike him,” Hazel responded.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said the snippy voice, her words fading into inaudible mumbles again. “Like father like son, I always…black mark on that family...a mystery whatever happened to the little girl.”
Hazel’s voice piped in again, all in a twitter asking what girl. Wondering the same question, Lizbeth pressed her ear more firmly.
“My memory is as sharp as...,” spoke the other woman. Her next words trumpeted, startling Lizbeth before quieting again mid-sentence, half of what she said lost through the wood grain of the door. “He brought them for only one Season, and then we never saw wife or children until…came showing off her daughter…I told Meredith…a pre-wedding surprise…they rushed the wedding and didn’t invite a soul…wife died of a ‘slight chill’…the girl, I ask you? Did he off her too, bury her in the back garden?”
Her blood ran cold.
Exclamations followed suit with a confusion of voices. All of the ladies talked at once, pandemonium of words and shouts until the same haughty voice said, “All’s the better when Constance marries Lord Cornerstone…estate near Brighton, you know.”
A third voice piped into the conversation, but all Liz heard were muffled chirps. She squashed her ear as hard against the door as she dared, praying the door didn’t swing open in the middle of the conversation. She could imagine Aunt Hazel’s expression to find Lizbeth lying prone in the den of ladies. She widened her stance to steady herself better against the door, her imagination reeling over what she had heard.
The bits and pieces of what she heard didn’t make enough sense to even form speculations. Had Sebastian been married? Did he have children? She silently mourned how little she knew of the man.
All the same, her ire rose at these busybody biddies dragging his name through the mud, assuming they were indeed talking about Sebastian. So typical of gossip mongers to spread lies and ruin reputations for their own amusement. What malicious whispers were these about offing children and wives? If this was what Society made of him, no wonder he trusted no one and suspected coincidences. She felt defensive on his behalf, protective of his name.
A new voice joined the conversation, an obnoxious, high-pitched shrill.
“He has no less than five earldoms. You do realize he’s the wealthiest man in England, do you not? Poppycock to your tale! Poppycock! I wouldn’t care if he were covered in warts. Hazel, dear, do yourself a favor, and marry him yourself. Why, he owns half of Yorkshire and Northumberland. Tell that bookish niece of yours to move out of the way.”
The original voice spit another reply, the deeper tones fading through the door, “Ridiculous notion. The north has no society…desolate wasteland...stuck with his company…mannerless brute, not unlike…father.”
More dampened words followed, but Liz missed them when her foot fell asleep. She adjusted her stance, wedging her feet against the doorframe. Needles pricked at her toes with the movement.
Her aunt’s voice resounded clearly when Liz returned her ear to the door. “I would go myself, except my ankle has been bothering me all day. I think I took a wrong turn this morning.”
Squawk.
Lizbeth’s head nearly collided with the door as she leapt back, startled by Captain Henry.
“Lizbeth!” Charlotte exclaimed, making her way down the stairs, one hand on the banister and one arm raised to hoist up Captain Henry who looked very much like he wanted to take flight and land on Lizbeth’s head. The bird leaned forward on Charlotte’s arm, his wings opening wider with each step of her descent. “What are you doing?”
“Oh,” Liz stammered. “I, uh, just returned from my walk and discovered Aunt Hazel has guests.”
“Splendid! I need advice on my gown this evening.” Pausing at the closed door, Charlotte looked Liz from head to toe and said, “You’re not walking into the drawing room dressed like that. Change out of your walking dress at least. You look frightfully flushed and bedraggled.”
Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves from what she overheard, Liz nodded without arguing. She was too perturbed, too shaken down to her half-boots to be insulted by her baby sister’s bossy reproach. Hiking her skirt in undignified indignation over the biddies, she took the stairs two at a time, frantic to widen the distance between her and the gossipers.
How dare they talk about Sebastian with such malice? Even the greedy woman who wanted him for his money rattled Lizbeth’s cage. Vexing women! He may be aloof, but she knew him to be kind. How dare they insinuate such vile things? Not that she heard enough to know exactly what it was they were insinuating, but the gist involved murdered wives and children. Bah! Her blood boile
d. They weren’t half the virtuous person he was. Typical of the beau monde to spread lies about people they didn’t bother to understand.
More than ever, she wanted to stand by his side in support, to show him and the world she wouldn’t believe Banbury tales of murder and intrigue, that she trusted him to be a noble man worthy of her affection and friendship.
Chapter 10
Her lady’s maid, Bettye, fussed over the flower brocading of her scarlet frock and the too hastily curled ringlets dangling from the coil of hair atop her head, attempting last minute touches as Lizbeth made for the door, fighting off Bettye with one hand and reaching for the door handle with the other.
“But Miss Trethow! Your hair still needs a few more pins!” Bettye chased after her, waving hair pins.
Lizbeth dashed for the stairs to dodge her well-intentioned maid and caught herself at the top step to pause, breathe, and descend calmly. She could hear from the drawing room Annick roaring heartily with laughter and her sister tittering.
Standing at the drawing room door, one foot in and one foot out, Sebastian watched her trek with unwavering eyes. Her breath caught seeing his regard.
She smiled, and the corners of his mouth curved upwards. He doesn’t look anything like a killer, she thought as she reached the bottom of the stairs and moved towards the drawing room, ready for an evening at Vauxhall.
The two pairs took a boat from Whitehall to the garden entrance on the south bank of the Thames in Kennington. More than a few jokes were made by Annick about the stench of the river, much to Liz’s dismay given his poor humor fairly ruined the grand entrance to the gardens, not that she could concentrate on much with Sebastian’s smoldering stare or her indecision of how to broach the topic of murder and mayhem.
Clearly, the way not to approach it would be to tell him she had overheard a conversation that may or may not have been about him and may or may not have involved gossip about the offing of a wife and child. Determined to substantiate his innocence in a single conversation, she would think of something.
Even her initial observations cleared him of all charges as far as she was concerned. Despite the magical evening being fraught with her anxieties of the gossip mongers, her companions were none the wiser. All along the walk past the supper boxes, orchestra building, and statue of Handel, he and Annick behaved with lighthearted frivolity, jibbing about all and sundry, acting like two children out for a walk in the park.
His mood was gay and his smile broad. That is not the face of a killer, she told herself. How dare those women say such things about him? She wanted to embrace him in front of all to see to show he had her unconditional support.
“Dinner isn’t for another two hours. Shall we tour about the place, amuse ourselves?” Annick asked, Charlotte on his arm.
“The less time I must spend with the gloating groom, the happier I will be,” jested Sebastian, in high spirits.
Annick feigned a friendly punch, and Sebastian overdramatized a dodge, both laughing at their boyish antics.
The mysticism of the gardens took Liz by surprise, momentarily dashing her worries as they walked the tree-lined avenue illuminated in rainbows from Turkish lanterns, already lit in preparation for dusk. Scented bouquets of fresh flowers hung from overarching Elm tree limbs. The shadier areas of the gardens darkened with shadows from the setting sun. All along the walk, jesters and mimes danced, chortled, and entertained, but were met with stiff competition, as the guests stared past them, dazzled instead by the duke and his betrothed.
Instinctively, Liz slowed her gait behind her sister, creating distance. The crowd scuttled to each side of the avenue, a parting sea for the duke and his lady, all eyes watching, all hands covering mouths as people gasped, cooed, and remarked on their great luck of seeing a noble in the flesh.
Wishing for a tree to hide behind, Liz took shorter steps, slower steps, allowing the crowd to fill behind the duke and separate the two couples. Sebastian at her side didn’t seem phased by her machinations. Not until they were quite alone in the crowd of onlookers did she realize he might mistake her intentions.
So be it.
She would rather him think she craftily sequestered him than be forced into the spotlight with all eyes upon her, never mind that she, in point of fact, was walking with no lesser of a personage. An earl should be bound to catch as much attention as a duke in a crowd full of penny-pinching commoners who saved for a rare treat to escape into exoticism, yet this earl had an uncanny ability to disappear into a crowd, as if he could cloak himself in anonymity.
His clothes may be custom tailored and the finest London had to offer, but he lacked the glitz of his cousin who fairly sparkled in the limelight. Never had she felt safer or more at home than on his arm.
They walked in companionable silence, admiring waterfalls, pavilions, bowling greens, iron bridges, and even a fake castle. Without the other pair, she was vulnerable to gossip, walking unchaperoned with an unmarried gentleman, but she neither cared nor fretted, as the throngs of people acted as a shield. Any concerned person could assume any one of the crowd members as a chaperone. And blast to anyone else who wanted to gossip about Sebastian. He didn’t deserve such rumors. She proudly walked at his side, smiling at the lush gardens.
Glancing beneath eyelashes at her companion, she admired his chiseled jaw and aquiline nose. He could have been a Roman emperor, she mused. Her memory flickered back to the veranda when their fingers entwined, him leaning within inches of her face, a hot mess of masculinity.
“Would it be rude of me to ask why you always wear the cameo?” He asked throatily, eyeing her sideways as they continued forward.
Startled, she reached up to touch the engraved amethyst. It hung on a shorter chain this evening, resting in the hollow of her throat.
“It belonged to my mother.” She raised it and angled her head so he could see it. “Papa commissioned it for her as a wedding gift. When she died, he gave it to me, not that I would need a gem to remember her.” She ran her thumb across the engraving. “It’s made in her likeness. I find it comforting, as though she’s with me when I wear it. Sentimental drivel to you, I’m sure.”
He paused his step to look down at the necklace. “Not at all. I hope you don’t think so harshly of my ribbing when we first met. I’m more sentimental than I confess. May I?” He reached hesitantly for the cameo.
The backs of his fingers grazed her throat as he captured the necklace in his palm. A shiver of warmth shuddered down her spine.
When she looked into his eyes, expecting to see her lust reflected in his, she saw instead raw pain, his brows furrowed, and his jaw clenched. His expression wrenched her heart.
What on earth had happened to this man to drown him in eternal heartache? He certainly didn’t murder his wife, for those eyes were not the eyes of a killer, rather the eyes of a victim.
“You were close to her, then?” he said, his words gravelly.
Liz nodded but didn’t respond.
“When did she pass? If my questions are too probing, forgive me.”
Her heart fluttered. The warring emotions raged inside her, as she wanted so much for him to show interest in her, yet she worried he wouldn’t share in return, especially about the more personal questions she desperately sought to ask.
Liz replied, “My mother died in childbed with Charlotte when I was seven. She was my dearest friend, my mother.”
Releasing the cameo, he took a step to continue their walk, one slow step after another, taking in the sights of the gardens around him as though unperturbed.
She braved a personal question in return, “Are you close to your mother?”
He stiffened but continued to walk. “No.”
A heavy silence fell, pregnant with unspoken words. And this was what she had feared. That impenetrable wall at a single personal question. And that hadn’t even been the question she wanted to ask.<
br />
She was about to change the subject, when, shockingly, he answered.
“Funny, these coincidences in our lives. It will be your turn to think I’m fibbing, but I promise you now that I’m not. My mother, too, died when I was seven.”
He paused, but when she didn’t interject, he added, “Unlike you, I hardly remember my mother. We weren’t close. I recall glimpses, shared moments, scattered images, but few specifics. I remember her tucking me in at night, kissing my forehead. I remember her walking along the coast while I built sandcastles. I remember one day when my father was in a mood, she came to the nursery and read to me and—,” he stopped short before continuing, “and her words drowned out his shouts from somewhere in the manor.”
“I’m happy you have those memories, even if they’re so few.” The comment about his father startled her, but she tucked it away for later. One hurdle at a time. “How did she die?”
“A fever, I was told,” he said, the words clipped, his lips pursued. “Complete balderdash. The woman died of heartbreak. But a fever is the official tale.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry. Was there naught a doctor could do to help?”
“A doctor was never called,” he answered sharply.
His good mood turned to gloom. She waited to see if he would explain, but he held his silence, avoiding eye contact.
Well, she decided, she had already managed to ruin his mood with a single question about his mother so how much harm could come from another daring question? If she didn’t ask now, she may lose her nerve later.
“Sebastian,” she steeled herself, gripping her cameo for courage, “are you widowed?”
He looked at her askance, one eyebrow raising quizzically.
“You realize, I would have to have married to be widowed. No, I’m not widowed. Didn’t we have this conversation at your aunt’s townhouse? The reasons neither of us have ever married? Or was I talking with another wonderful woman named Lizbeth?” A quiet laugh accompanied a bemused expression, his mood altered for the better. “Why the devil—pardon my language—would you ask me that?”
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