by Jane Feather
The lady gave another scornful snort. “Of course not, girl. He wouldn’t subject any woman to what he’s convinced will happen. As far as he’s concerned, marriage is never going to be a possibility for him because he wouldn’t subject any woman to the scandal. But he’s wrong. I’m old enough, and I’ve seen enough, my dear, to know that news of his marriage will be no more than a nine days’ wonder. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but if you both brazen it out, it will die down sooner rather than later.”
Cornelia said nothing, and the duchess spoke again into the silence, “You think me presumptuous, of course, a nosy old woman…but as I said, I’ve a fondness for Bonham. And I like you,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
And here was yet another tangle in the skein of Harry Bonham, Cornelia thought, as they returned to the supper box. Did she want to unravel it? Could she afford to unravel it? The taint of murder…It would certainly produce the sun by which the earl of Markby, given half a chance, would make hay.
And she supposed it explained why Harry played Casanova at her window. In his eyes, as long as their liaison was secret, she would not be tainted by the scandal. And for the same reason, their relationship could never progress beyond a liaison. Understanding brought a chill of satisfaction, but no pleasure.
Chapter 22
JUST WHAT THE DEVIL had the meddlesome old woman wanted of Nell? Harry watched the two women stroll down the path back towards the supper box. They were both silent, his great-aunt somewhat grim-faced, Cornelia looking noncommittal.
He had been joined a few minutes earlier by the other four, giving him some relief from Eliza, who was always so pathetically grateful for any attention that she tended to lapse into a loquacious confusion of thanks and apologies. Aurelia was now engaging her in conversation, politely attentive as she tried to find the sense in the muddle.
“Ah, there you are,” Harry greeted pleasantly, as Cornelia helped the duchess up the few steps into the box. “Supper awaits.”
“So I should hope,” Her Grace retorted. “I can’t abide eating this late.”
“Then, ma’am, perhaps you should have stayed home,” Harry said gently, pulling out a chair for her.
She glared at him but took her seat without further comment.
“Ham, ma’am?” Harry proffered the silver salver of wafer-thin ham that the gardens were famous for. He placed two slices on her plate, before turning to her companion. “Ma’am, may I serve you?”
“Oh, goodness me, my lord, you are too kind…really too kind. Perhaps the tiniest slice…just the tiniest…maybe that little piece over there. I mustn’t be greedy, must I?” She smiled and bobbed her head as she looked at her fellow guests.
“Oh, stop gibbering, Eliza,” her employer demanded. “There’s more than enough for everyone.”
“Yes, of course, Your Grace…I didn’t imagine there wasn’t…indeed I know dear Lord Bonham always provides….” Eliza subsided dolefully under a glare from the duchess.
“How was the orchestra, Liv?” Cornelia asked swiftly.
“Oh, quite a spectacle.” Livia picked up her cue after shooting a sympathetic glance towards Her Grace’s beleaguered companion. “A lot of couples were dancing, but they all wore masks. I hadn’t realized it was a masked ball.”
The conversation swirled around Cornelia. She offered an occasional comment when she caught the drift of the chatter, but it was hard to concentrate. She couldn’t imagine that the man who was such a tender, humorous, deeply sensual lover had killed someone. And yet she knew shadows concealed his self from her. He was a master actor, of that she was convinced. Whatever role he chose cloaked the real Harry Bonham. But who and what was the real Harry Bonham?
“You seem distracted, Lady Dagenham?”
She jumped guiltily, suddenly aware that Lord Forster had been talking to her for some minutes. “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. I was lost in contemplation. There’s so much to see.” It was such a feeble excuse that it made her feel even guiltier, and she was now very conscious of Harry’s cool green eyes appraising her. Had he guessed what his aunt had told her?
She forced herself to focus on her companions around the table, and after a few minutes, Harry looked away.
“I would love to see the fireworks,” Livia said, as supper drew to a close. “Shall we all go?”
“Can’t abide ’em,” the duchess announced, not unexpectedly. “Forster, you may escort us to our carriage.”
David bowed his acquiescence to the imperious command. “It will be my pleasure, ma’am.”
Harry rose swiftly. “I’ll escort you, ma’am.”
“No you won’t. Forster will do very well,” his aunt declared, gathering her shawls about her. “Have a care for your guests, Bonham.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His bow was ironic.
Her Grace took a relatively gracious leave of the party and departed on David’s arm, her companion bobbing along behind, carrying her employer’s large reticule.
“Poor woman,” murmured Aurelia. “How can she bear it? Oh, I beg your pardon, Lord Bonham, I know she’s your relative, but the duchess is so overbearing.”
“Think nothing of it,” Harry said with a dismissive gesture. “She’s a positive Gorgon and delights in being so. Are we all going to watch the fireworks?”
He looked interrogatively at Cornelia and she understood that he was asking her to stay behind. But she was not ready for a tête-à-tête, not until she’d fully absorbed his great-aunt’s confidence.
“I would certainly like to see them,” she said, ignoring the flash of puzzled disappointment in his eyes. “Are you coming, Ellie?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Harry gave up. It was always possible that Cornelia was avoiding being alone with him because of her acute concern about appearances. He didn’t think there was any reason to worry about something as natural as a couple in clear view in a supper box on the main colonnade, but he knew how worried she was about a whisper of scandal touching her children. It might be an unnecessary precaution on this occasion, but he supposed he could…or should…understand.
He offered her his arm. “Let us go then.”
Amid the noise and dazzle of the spectacle, Cornelia’s abstraction passed unnoticed by all save Harry, who could feel the tension in her body as a palpable force as she stood close beside him. He touched her arm, and she jumped almost out of her skin.
“Why so nervous?” he asked quietly.
“You took me by surprise,” she responded with an unconvincing laugh. “I was so taken up with the fireworks. Look at that Catherine wheel.” She pointed upwards at the whirling circle of sparking colors.
Harry merely shrugged and after another minute, said as quietly as before, “I’ll come to you tonight.”
He felt her stiffen before she said, “I don’t feel too well, Harry. If you don’t mind, I’d rather sleep tonight.”
“We could do that,” he said mildly. “I would like to be with you, making love is not the only pleasure I gain from your company. I would like you to sleep in my arms.”
“Hush,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Someone might hear.”
“Not with this racket going on,” he observed frowning. “You can barely hear yourself think.”
“Still…” she demurred.
“As you wish,” he said flatly.
Cornelia bit her lip. She couldn’t blame him for being hurt by her abrupt withdrawal, but until she could explain it to herself, she could hardly explain it to him. She didn’t know whether his great-aunt’s revelations really mattered to her. They were important when it came to the wider question of his possible remarriage, but did that matter to her? Harry had never suggested regularizing their liaison, and his aunt had explained his scruples, although dismissing them as unnecessary. But whether society in general was forgiving of such a taint on his reputation, the earl of Markby would certainly use it. What Cornelia couldn’t decide was whether this strange depression was because somew
here deep in her soul unconsciously she had hoped for this love affair to become permanent, and now there could never be such a hope.
The excruciating evening finally drew to a close, and Cornelia had difficulty hiding her relief as they walked down to the water steps. David had rejoined them halfway through the fireworks display and he walked now with Livia, who chatted as animatedly as Aurelia was chatting with Nick. Only Harry and Cornelia walked in a strangely deadened silence.
Harry went with them in the scull, and together with Nick and David escorted them to the waiting Berlin. He held Cornelia back for a moment with a hand on her arm as the other four made their farewells at the carriage step.
“What is it, Nell?” His eyes raked her face, looking for some clue to this sudden tension.
“The time of the month,” she lied in desperation. “I really don’t feel at all well, Harry. It will pass in a day or two, but…”
“I understand,” he interrupted almost brusquely. He didn’t believe her, although he had no evidence for disbelief, but if she was so anxious to sleep alone that she would produce the one excuse no gentleman could ignore, then he must accept it. He handed her into the carriage, raising her hand to his lips for an instant before releasing it.
“May I call upon you in the morning?”
She could hardly refuse such a request, although she knew she would have to have come to some resolution of her feelings before she saw him again. “Of course,” she said lightly. “You are always welcome, Viscount…as indeed are you all.” Her smile encompassed all three men. “Thank you for a delightful party, Lord Bonham.”
“It has been my pleasure.” There was no disguising the sardonic tone. He bowed and stepped back, closing the carriage door upon them.
“Well, that was an entertaining evening,” Aurelia said, grabbing on to the strap as the carriage suddenly lurched forward over the cobbles.
“Yes, your Casanova is certainly an exemplary host, Nell,” Livia remarked. She looked across the carriage, catching sight of Cornelia’s expression in the light from a gas lamp, and said with concern, “Are you ill, Nell? You’re very pale.”
“Actually, you’ve been pale all evening,” Aurelia said, joining Livia in her examination of their friend’s countenance in the uncertain light. “And very quiet.”
Cornelia sighed. “I was buttonholed by the great-aunt, who insisted on a private chat.”
“What about?” Livia leaned forward intently.
“Harry. What else?”
“Does she suspect something?”
Cornelia shrugged. “She was kind enough to inform me that she believed Harry had an interest in me because why else would a Bonham bestir himself for three women with so little to recommend them to the Upper Ten Thousand. She thought I should know that such a union was impossible.” It was close to the truth, she comforted herself.
“What a witch,” Aurelia declared in disgust. “I hope you put her in her place.”
Cornelia was now on the horns of a dilemma. It wasn’t strictly fair to the lady to paint her as black as she’d implied, but neither could she so much as hint at the truth. Not yet at least. She settled for another shrug and a dismissive, “Oh, I didn’t attempt the impossible. It’s immaterial anyway. The idea hadn’t occurred to me.”
Her friends regarded her doubtfully. The ring of truth was absent here, but they were both too sensitive to probe further.
The great iron key was underneath the Grecian urn beside the door, and they let themselves into the darkened house. Morecombe had remembered to leave one lamp burning in a sconce in the hall, and three carrying candles stood on the table beneath. They lit the candles from the sconce, and Cornelia blew out the latter before following her friends to the stairs.
She produced a convincing yawn as they reached the landing. “I’m dead on my feet. It must be all those Latin verbs this morning. Are you coming to the nursery, Ellie?”
“Yes, of course,” Aurelia said. “Good night, Liv.” She kissed Livia.
“Good night, Liv.” Cornelia kissed her too, and they parted company, Cornelia and Aurelia heading for the nursery stairs.
Aurelia tucked Franny’s blanket tighter around her and kissed her daughter’s smooth brow. “She looks so peaceful when she’s asleep, it’s hard to believe what a tempestuous little creature she is.” She smiled down at the sleeping child.
Cornelia smiled her agreement as she moved between her children’s narrow beds, adjusting coverlets, smoothing back errant locks of hair.
“Ready?” Aurelia moved to the door.
“In a minute,” Cornelia whispered. “You go on down.”
Aurelia nodded. “Good night then.”
“Good night, Ellie.” She stayed looking down at her son, his face a little flushed with sleep, his long dark eyelashes, his father’s eyelashes, resting in half-moons on his pink cheeks. She could not lose him. Not even for a lifetime of joy with Harry Bonham.
Stevie had his ball and was kicking it in front of him as the little party came through the iron gate into the seclusion of the private garden.
“Daisy, will you play ball with me?” Stevie asked in his childish treble. He was much less importunate than his cousin, who instantly shrieked her own claims to the game.
Susannah merely plopped herself down on the grass beside the border and picked a crocus.
“All right, Lord Stevie, just a minute,” Daisy called, bending to wipe Franny’s nose.
Stevie kicked the ball onto a path running away from the lawn, and Franny pulled herself free of Daisy’s ministrations and chased after her cousin as he followed the ball. There was a slight slope to the path, and the ball rolled of its own volition, gaining speed.
Stevie ran after it, Franny shouting excitedly behind him. And then the little girl caught her toe against a tree root and went sprawling on the path. She howled, and Daisy, clutching Susannah’s hand, came running.
Stevie continued after the ball.
“Stevie…Lord Stevie, come back here.” Daisy’s voice was distracted as she tried to soothe the wailing Franny even while holding on to Susannah.
Stevie halted his pursuit of the ball for a second, glancing back as if considering whether to obey the summons or not. He turned around again, and seeing his ball heading rapidly towards a curve in the path, chased after it.
Franny’s frantic howls were now joined by Susannah’s in sympathy, and the nursemaid, on her knees on the path as she mopped the blood from Franny’s scraped knee and tried to reassure Susannah, didn’t look back again.
Stevie rounded the bend in the path and didn’t hear the man stepping out behind him. Then he was suddenly enveloped in a suffocating blackness, something wrapped tightly around his head. Something pressed hard against the back of his head forcing his face into his abductor’s shoulder. He kicked and struggled, but his efforts were no match for the strong arms that held him as they set off at a fast lope heading for the far side of the garden and the gate on the other side of the square.
His captor ran from the garden to where a horse was tethered to the railing. He swung up, still holding his blind and stifled burden tightly against him, and kicked the animal into a fast trot out of the square.
Daisy finally managed to quieten Franny’s frantic yells, but by then Susannah was crying in good earnest. She stood up, holding the three-year-old on her hip, jiggling her rhythmically while she looked around for Stevie. She called and listened. But there were only the quiet sounds of the garden, a rustle of a squirrel, the trill of a thrush in the privet hedge.
She called again, her voice rising with panic, then she began to run along the path to where she’d seen him last, Susannah bouncing on her hip, Franny clutching at her skirts.
“Where’s Stevie? Where’s Stevie?” Franny chanted repetitively.
“Oh, hush yourself, Franny,” Daisy demanded, her desperation giving way to angry frustration. If it hadn’t been for this child, she would not have lost sight of the other one. She bent and sh
ook the little girl, not hard, but for a child who was totally unaccustomed to anything but patient responses, it shocked Franny into unaccustomed silence.
Daisy ran around the outside path that circled within the railings, calling Stevie. When the circuit produced nothing, she plunged down the various paths that all emerged into the grassy lawn in the center of the square. Stevie was not a particularly mischievous child, and he would never torment her in this fashion. He might hide for a few minutes, but then he’d bounce out laughing at his cleverness.
She stood still in the center of the square, tears pouring down her cheeks at the utter futility of the quiet and the absolute conviction of the truth.
Little Viscount Dagenham was not in the garden.
She grabbed Franny’s hand in a viselike grip and ran almost blindly out of the garden and across the road to the house. She hammered on the brass knocker, and the door was opened by a startled Cornelia.
“Whatever…?” Cornelia took in the nursemaid’s tear-streaked countenance, the shock on Franny’s face, Susannah’s hiccuping little sobs, and the color drained from her face.
“What’s happened to Stevie?” The question came through bloodless lips, then, without waiting for an answer, she pushed past Daisy and ran across the street to the garden.
Chapter 23
HARRY WALKED INTO THE STORM an hour later. The front door was ajar, and he didn’t trouble to knock, instead pushing it wide and stepping into the hall. It was immediately apparent that something was badly wrong. He could almost smell the panic in the air.
Daisy, the nursemaid, was a sodden tear-stricken heap on the stairs, the two little girls wailing beside her. An ashen Linton was berating the sobbing Daisy in a voice edged with hysteria. The twins, for once showing emotion, were trying to comfort the children with gingerbread, while Morecombe stood, clearly at a loss, to one side of the little group muttering to himself.