by Burnett, May
“Jilting a betrothed certainly diminishes a lady’s reputation and chances of receiving other offers, but then if I do not marry Jeremy, I shall not marry at all.” No other man would be willing to take a ruined woman. And she could not imagine trying to overcome her fears of bodily contact with anyone else.
“If it is he or no one, best resign yourself to the marriage – he is very eligible and not bad-looking. Now I understand why you never wanted Rob. You were already in love with Lord Barton, I suppose.”
“Not exactly. I do have warm feelings for him, but it is not passionate love by any means. I am not even entirely sure I can end this engagement with an actual wedding. But in view of the vicious rumours, as Lady Cirrell told us last night, it will be helpful for him as well as you if he is betrothed to me.”
“Lady Cirrell was talking of dropping a hint of your romance to a rival paper, when she left us.”
“It may already be old news, as the notice of our engagement should appear in the Morning Post tomorrow, or the day after that at the latest.”
“And you are going to leave me, I suppose.” Only her long acquaintanceship with Milla told Abigail that the indifferent tone was feigned. “That is only to be expected under the circumstances.”
“No, I told Jeremy that I could not abandon you. But my engagement to a Viscount with excellent connections may benefit us both.”
Milla turned her ring on her finger, looking contemplative. “Your stepmother will be most surprised.”
Astounded, more likely. “It is no longer any of her business – remember that she washed her hands of me.”
“What do you want to bet that she wants to know you after all, now that you are a future Countess? She’ll be knocking at our door in no time.”
That seemed all too probable. “My stepmother did flatter Jeremy quite odiously two years ago. She was hoping he would look in my direction, as unlikely as that seemed at the time.”
“Well, I hope you’ll be happy with him. In fact, I am nearly sure of it. You are such a restful, undemanding companion that he’ll be difficult to please if you don’t have a happy life together.”
“We shall see,” Abigail muttered. It was not the same – she might be a good friend and companion, but the role of wife included physical duties at which she might fail utterly.
Had she shocked him very much with her second condition? Was it even feasible? How would they manage to test this part of their relationship during their engagement, without creating more scandal? She would have to leave the details to Jeremy’s ingenuity.
“You know what this means?” Milla asked, getting up from the sofa and pacing between the tea table and the window.
“What?”
“You need a great many more clothes, hats and accessories to suitably play the role of Lord Barton’s intended bride. And you won’t accept any money from him, if I know you, until you are married.”
“No, of course not. It is bad enough that I am allowing you to pay for my new clothes, until I get hold of my inheritance. I shall make do with what we already ordered.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It is not such a great amount, unless my inheritance should be wrested away.”
There was a knock on the door, murmurs; the maid brought in a bunch of pink roses, a small billet pinned to the stems. For a moment Abigail hoped they were from Jeremy, but on closer examination the envelope bore the inscription Lady Fenton.
“You might as well open it,” Milla said indifferently.
“Dear Lady Fenton,” Abigail read,
“The time draws nigh. I do hope you have the gold ready. I am willing to exchange the document in my possession for one thousand gold sovereigns. Bring them yourself, at midnight tomorrow, to St. Emma’s Church and leave the purse in the confessional closest to the altar, on the left. The document will be delivered to your hotel the next morning.
Do not fail in this – the consequences would be most unpleasant.
Yours in admiration,
B. Chatteris.”
“A thousand?” Milla was calmer than Abigail felt at this extortion. “Could I even carry that much on me? Such a sum must weigh a great deal.”
“I am more worried that the document may not be delivered to the hotel after all,” Abigail pointed out. “If you pay him without receiving the will, I mean to say, letter in immediate exchange, and without ever meeting Chatteris face to face, what is to keep him from demanding more and more money? We need to inform Lord Barton. Perhaps that blond brute he employs can catch Chatteris after you leave a dummy package.”
“You think Chatteris is that stupid?”
“We can only hope.”
“And where is St. Emma’s anyway? I do not remember it mentioned in our guidebook.”
“I have lived in London most of my life and I don’t know either. It cannot be one of the better-known churches. The presence of a confessional may mean that it is a Catholic church, there are still a few.”
“We can find out by tomorrow, I suppose. But a thousand pounds? Does this Chatteris think I am made of money?”
“You could get your hands on the sum, Milla?”
“I suppose so, but as you say, where is it going to end?”
Abigail sat down at the writing desk and penned a short letter to Jeremy, enclosing Chatteris’ last note. She explained their idea about the dummy payment and an ambush, and asked for help to find the church’s location.
“Will he come to the St. Emma’s personally, do you suppose?” Milla asked when the note had been dispatched. “If your Lord Barton is seen skulking around at midnight in my vicinity, all your efforts at scotching scandal may be for naught. Next they will claim that we were secretly married there. You should have suggested deputizing that younger brother. I like him better than your fiancé, no offense, Abigail.”
“Is that because he knows about boats and sailing, or because he obviously admires you?”
“When all the lords of our acquaintance prefer you, Abigail, it is pleasant to find one young man who does admire my style. I have no idea how sincere he is, however. Barnaby Winthrop is more complex than he appears at first glance.”
“Aren’t we all?” Abigail herself had secrets that only Susan and Jeremy shared. Susan would be surprised to hear of the engagement … or maybe not; she had seen the easy familiarity between her brother and her friend during those weeks in Cornwall. She would certainly welcome the match. Abigail was far less sure about the rest of the Winthrop family. Lord Barton, as a future earl, need not have settled for a mere Captain’s daughter.
Whatever they thought, his father and brothers would have to accept the engagement, and her, if she decided to marry Jeremy in the end.
She had better find out the direction of a physician. She suppressed a small shiver. Such an examination would be humiliating and undignified, possibly painful. But she simply could not marry a future earl if she was unable to bear his children. She had endured worse, she could endure that too.
“Let’s drink to your engagement, I’ll send for a bottle of champagne. You look like you need cheering up.” Mercifully Milla did not comment how strange that was in a woman who had just accepted a most eligible offer.
Abigail nodded her agreement. A drink or even two might help her forget all worries; especially her strong distaste of a strange man poking around her lower belly, physician or not.
Chapter 15
“Engaged at last! I knew you would not fail me!” Lord Branscombe was overjoyed at receiving his heir’s news over breakfast. “That will give the lie to those scurrilous scribblers,” he said with deep satisfaction. After a few moments’ thought he added with rather less enthusiasm, “I remember the gal from Susan’s wedding, she cried her eyes out. Is she always so sentimental?”
“No more than usual,” Jeremy said, “and she has matured since then.” He could not tell anyone that Abigail had had excellent reasons for crying at the time. “Her father is one of the highest-ranking captains on the list, like
ly to be promoted to Admiral soon, and her maternal grandfather was a general. Otherwise both sides of the family are respectable gentry.”
“What about her dowry?”
“I have not enquired. Even if she has none it would still be better than Miss Rowan, whose father indicated he expected me to settle his debts.”
“No, did he? I had no idea he was that far gone. But no matter, as you are not marrying Sibury’s chit after all.”
“He may be angry at my engagement to Miss Trevelyan. The other night Sibury threatened to slander me, regarding Lady Fenton, if I did not marry into his family.”
“Threatened you? You cannot be serious!” Barnaby exclaimed, looking up from the paper he had been scanning. “Who does he think he is? More to the point, how does he dare imagine anyone in our family would care about his paltry threats?”
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss them,” Jeremy said, “you have just seen how much damage a single unknown writer could do, who has less social heft than Lord Sibury. But with any luck, the announcement of my engagement will block him; any kind of slander on his part may now be interpreted as sour grapes.”
“How does Miss Rowan feel about the matter?” Barnaby wondered.
“After the cold shoulder she showed me at the Daventry ball, I do not care. Abigail is my bride, and I would prefer to forget Muriel Rowan.”
“At least Susan will be happy at the news,” Barnaby said. “Miss Trevelyan is already her close friend, and I am not at all sure she would have taken to Miss Rowan – whom I will now strive to forget, as you suggest, Jer.”
“Indeed, let us focus on the future,” their father concurred. “An early wedding would be best. Perhaps in four weeks?”
“Four weeks? Remember that it is the bride’s privilege to set the date,” Jeremy said. “She may want to wait for her father’s return, so he can give her away.”
“True, true. I have friends at the Admiralty, and will enquire there how soon we can expect him. But if it should be more than a few months, I don’t see that you should be expected to wait upon him.” The earl brooded for a moment. “Maybe I can get them to speed his recall.”
Barnaby and Jeremy exchanged glances. It was highly doubtful that even as influential a man as their father would be able to affect the Navy’s schedule.
“What of the girl’s mother? Have I met her? I don’t remember her at all.”
“Miss Trevelyan’s mother died some years ago,” Jeremy explained. “She has a step-mother, her father’s second wife, but they are estranged.”
The earl frowned. “How can that be?”
“Mrs. Trevelyan has a tyrannical streak, as well as exaggerated and obnoxious piety, and made Abigail’s life very difficult. After visiting Susan for several weeks last spring, Miss Trevelyan elected to stay with the newly widowed Lady Fenton in Dorset rather than return to her stepmother in London.”
“I hope she doesn’t play that trick on you once you are married,” Lord Branscombe said, shaking his head. “Did she stay with Lady Fenton as a guest, or a paid companion? And for over a year? Didn’t the stepmother object?”
“Let’s assume as a guest,” Jeremy said. “After all, the exact details are nobody’s business. The stepmother was not happy with her absence, I gather, but there was little she could do, short of travelling to Dorset herself and bodily dragging Abigail back to town. Which, happily, she did not attempt.”
“It is not quite the background I could have wished for your wife,” the Earl said heavily, “but the main thing is that she’ll be able to give you children.”
Jeremy knew his father was right, but hearing it stated so baldly for some reason irked him. “She is not a brood mare, Father.”
“Close enough. Did you say she was an only child? Had you consulted me, I would have suggested looking at families with proven fertility, where there are several healthy babes on every branch of the family tree.” His possessive glance passed over his strapping sons. “Like ours.”
“What’s done is done, Father,” Barnaby reminded Lord Branscombe. “I hope you will not discuss these concerns with Miss Trevelyan, when you meet her again.”
“As you say, it’s too late to change horses,” his father said. “We can but hope for the best. When are you going to bring home a bride, Barnaby? You are in your mid-twenties, the best possible age for matrimony.”
“Not until Jeremy has set the example.”
“Yes, but now it is only a few more weeks or months till he’ll be married. You can start looking at candidates in the meantime,” the earl insisted.
“Perhaps I will.” Likely Barnaby just wanted to get his father off the subject.
“If you permit, my lord,” their butler said to Jeremy, “may I offer heart-felt felicitations on behalf of all the staff? We are looking forward to having a lady of the house again.”
“Thank you, and everyone,” Jeremy said.
The butler coughed discreetly. “Apart from the notice in the Morning Post, there was an article mentioning you in this morning’s Society Notes – a small paper that is passed around amongst the staff. Would you care to see it?”
“By all means. I always like to know the worst.”
The butler extracted a folded torn-out page from his pocket, and handed it to Jeremy. “There it is, my lord.”
“Read it aloud,” the Earl ordered.
“The Lord and the Companion, that is the headline, not very big, I am glad to say. Contrary to speculations in a rival paper that Lord B. is enamoured of the widow of the Viscount he killed in Cornwall, we have heard a little bird whisper that the true object of the noble duellist’s affections is none other than Miss T., the daughter of a naval hero who has been staying with Lady F. as her guest. Miss T. has long been the best friend of Lady S., Lord B’s only sister. Will wedding bells ring in the near future for this nobleman and the Captain’s daughter? We would not be surprised.”
“Together with the notice of my engagement, that will hopefully counteract those baseless suspicions,” Jeremy said when he reached the end of the short article. “If anyone asks you for confirmation, you might tell them that a long-standing mutual attachment has subsisted between Miss Trevelyan and me.”
“I would not so lower myself as to talk to the press, my lord,” the butler rebuked him. “Though I cannot speak for all staff members.”
After he had left the room, Barnaby grinned. “That is all very well, but if you had a long mutual attachment, what were you about dancing so often with Muriel Rowan? And don’t tell me to forget her name, because society will remember it well enough.”
“I was trying to get over Abigail, of course, unaware that she would accept me after all when we met again.” Strangely enough, though Barnaby thought he was funning, it was more true than not. Jeremy had never felt as much affection and protectiveness for Miss Rowan as he harboured for gentle Abigail. Maybe in his case, an attachment manifested as this strange desire to take care of a girl, to remove all sorrows and obstacles from her path – including the wounds and bad memories from her past.
And speaking of that, he needed to shield her and the family – Susan – from the other threatening scandal, the late Lord Fenton’s iniquitous will. Since receiving Abigail’s note the previous night, his anger at the extortionist Chatteris had only grown. He had summoned Hendrickson and Barnaby for a council of war in his study, right after breakfast. Hendrickson should be arriving just about now. Jeremy swiftly downed the remaining half-cup of tea, and put the napkin down on the table. “Excuse me, father, I have a business meeting. Are you finished yet, Barnaby?”
“In five minutes,” his younger brother said with exasperating calm, adding a piece of smoked salmon to his plate. Jeremy glared at him, but Barnaby was impervious since their joint time in the nursery, and only grinned in response. If Barnaby ever did marry, his wife would probably clout him over the head with the teapot.
Hendrickson was already waiting when they finally assembled. Jeremy showed them the new
letter from Chatteris. “It came with pink roses for Lady Fenton, damn the fellow’s impudence.”
“Really?” Barnaby frowned. “Chatteris cannot know the language of flowers. Pink roses mean friendship, totally inappropriate with an extortion note. It inclines me to think he cannot be a gentleman. And where is this St. Emma’s? I suspect it is not in any respectable neighbourhood, as I am not familiar with it.”
Hendrickson said, “It is in Marylebone, Sir. A smallish Catholic Church, frequented mostly by Irish immigrants.”
Barnaby looked even more unhappy. “How can he expect a lady to go there at midnight? Will the Church not be locked?”
“He will have checked that it is kept open before suggesting the venue,” Hendrickson pointed out. “There would be nothing worth stealing in a church like that. We have to assume that Chatteris will follow Lady Fenton from the hotel. Nobody he knows must be visible anywhere near her. I can muster several stout lads that he will not have seen before.”
“I am not sure we should follow Miss Trevelyan’s suggestion to place a dummy package in the Church,” Jeremy said. “That is all well and good it we can capture him, and force him to unhand the document. But if anything goes wrong it will only anger the man. We simply cannot afford to have him turn vindictive and spiteful.”
“Are you suggesting we use real specie?” Hendrickson asked. “It is a lot of gold to risk.”
“I think we shall have to. I can get it from the bank in the afternoon.”
Barnaby said, “You are aware that the fellow will likely hold on to the document, and ask for more the next day?”
“Almost certainly, but there is a small chance he’ll play fair – especially if he is really taken with Lady Fenton.”
“With any luck, we’ll catch him and get the money back,” Hendrickson said. “But I must warn you that at night, in an unfamiliar place, it is impossible to give guarantees. In his place I would watch the building earlier, to make sure nobody was hanging around that does not belong there.”