by Gayle Buck
“But what did you do? I know from what Mr. Pettiforth confided to me that you had very little in the way of funds with you,” said Mrs. Arnold, appalled and yet fascinated.
“The innkeeper allowed me to sleep on the settle in the parlor and he saw that I got onto the mail coach in the morning. I suspect that he pitied me, rather, for he did not charge me for the night or for the tea that I drank,” said Verity reflectively.
She was startled by a sharp curse. When she realized how grim was her brother’s expression, she laid her hand upon his knee. Even through the remaining anger that she felt toward him, she could sympathize with his feelings. She knew that he genuinely cared for her and it had pained him to hear her narrative. “I came home safely, Charles.”
“Yes, we must be truly thankful for that,” said Mrs. Arnold, shuddering. “It could have gone so very wrong, could it not? If the innkeeper had not taken compassion upon you, why, you would have been out in the weather and prey to-to—”
Sir Charles leaped up from the settee, unable to contain his feelings any longer. He exclaimed harshly, “Indeed! It could have been far worse.”
With deliberation he smashed his fist down on the top of the mantel. The ladies jumped, horrified by the expression of violence, yet dimly recognizing that the very control that he exhibited in executing the blow emphasized the depth of his fury.
His expression was terrible; when he spoke, however, his voice was remarkably even. “Rathbone has much to answer for, I believe. You have suffered extraordinarily at his lordship’s hands. But I promise you that he shall answer to me for it.”
“Charles, no!” Verity jumped up from her seat. She clutched her brother’s unyielding arm. He glanced down at her with hard eyes and she felt herself quail before the foreign emotion in their depths. She spoke quickly, urgently, “Pray do not confront the viscount, Charles. There is not the least use in it. I said all that mattered, pray believe that! As for my reputation, Betsy has assured me that since most of the house party were provincials, there will be little said in London circles among my real friends, and that it wants only some resolution and boldness to put to death any wayward rumors.”
“That is quite true, Sir Charles. I added a few brilliant strokes of my own at the Pettiforths before I left. Even those who might have continued to believe ill of Verity somewhat revised their opinions when it was revealed that she is a favorite of the Earl and Countess of Chard,” added Mrs. Arnold.
Verity turned an incredulous stare on her. “What a bouncer, Betsy! We exchange cordialities, nothing more.”
Mrs. Arnold shrugged, smiling a little. “Perhaps I exaggerated. But I do not believe that it was bad of me to do so when the connection so neatly fit the purpose.”
“I appreciate your efforts on Verity’s behalf, Mrs. Arnold.” Sir Charles’s voice was polite, but there was a vein of steel underlying it that hardened as he continued. “However, my sister’s situation requires more than the whitewash bestowed by the name of a noble acquaintance. Nor am I so sanguine as to trust that it shall all blow over so very neatly. No, I shall seek out Lord Rathbone.”
“No, Charles! Pray do not!” exclaimed Verity.
“No, Verity. You cannot persuade me otherwise! I intend to demand satisfaction. Lord Rathbone shall meet me.” A peculiar smile lit Sir Charles’s eyes, though his mouth remained hard. “Or his lordship shall put his wedding band upon your finger.”
“Charles, you cannot possibly do this!” exclaimed Verity, horrified, stepping back and staring up at him as though she had never truly seen him before.
“Can I not? I promise you, this time next week Lord Rathbone will either lie dead on the green at my feet, or he will have offered you an honorable estate. My own preference is to make a quick end of him.” Sir Charles regarded his sister’s pale face with detached interest. “Come, Verity, can you harbor fellow feeling for a gentleman who with such callous indifference stole your honor?”
Verity turned away sharply, one hand going to her mouth.
Sir Charles frowned. He stepped after her, catching her elbow and turning her to face him. She would not meet his eyes. “Verity.”
With his other hand he forced up her chin. Still she refused to look at him, her lashes hiding her expression. “What is this? Do you actually care for the blackguard?”
There was a long, strained silence. It proved his answer. Sir Charles let go of her and sighed. “Very well. I shall do my best to curb my more violent instincts.”
“I do not wish to be forced into wedlock,” said Verity in a low, intense voice. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her.
“You shall wed Rathbone, or not, as you please,” said Sir Charles.
She looked up quickly, meeting his eyes. “You mean to kill him otherwise, do you not?”
Her brother shrugged. “Our place in this world is established, Verity. There are rules of conduct that we must all follow. Transgressions are not forgiven, nor forgotten. You must know that. Though your own conduct may have been entirely blameless, and should all fall out entirely as Mrs. Arnold has predicted, yet you would still be forever haunted by an ugly cloud of speculation. That is not what I wish for you. Therefore I must defend your honor as best I know how.”
“He is right, my dear,” said Mrs. Arnold softly, her gaze compassionate.
The enormity of the trap in which she found herself was stunning. Her mind reeled under the impact. She could either agree to her brother’s decree of death for Lord Rathbone, or she could bow to his pronouncement of her future lot. Oddly enough, it did not enter her mind that it might be her brother who would find death in a duel with Lord Rathbone. She was altogether focused on the viscount and how his destiny—and hers—hung in the balance.
Verity’s shoulders sagged. “I have no choice then, have I?”
Sir Charles did not answer what was, after all, a rhetorical question. “I shall leave for London in the morning. Mrs. Arnold, I would consider it a favor if you would allow Verity to accompany you to London and stay with you until this matter is happily resolved.”
“Of course, Sir Charles. Verity knows that she is always welcome,” said Mrs. Arnold. She rose and shook out her skirts. “I discover that I have lost my interest in taking tea. I hope that you will excuse me, Sir Charles. Verity, why do we not go up to bed? I am certain that your good Stafford has made some arrangement for us abovestairs.”
“Yes, of course. You must be tired,” said Verity mechanically. Taking up a branch of lit candles, she ushered her friend toward the door of the sitting room. Without looking around, she said, “Good night, Charles.”
He watched his sister and Mrs. Arnold exit, an expressionless mask concealing his emotions. Turning to the fireplace, he poked at a smoldering log with the toe of his boot. “What a thoroughly damnable homecoming,” he muttered.
* * * *
The following morning, Verity and Mrs. Arnold left Crofthouse for London. They drove away in the Arnold carriage. Sir Charles, who professed his preference for the freedom and fresh air of riding, accompanied the carriage on horseback.
Mrs. Arnold’s maid and Sir Charles’s attendant followed in one of the carriages from Crofthouse with all of the baggage.
Several times in the course of the journey, Mrs. Arnold attempted to engage Verity in conversation. She suffered a singular lack of success. At last, Mrs. Arnold said contritely, “I am sorry, Verity. Perhaps I was wrong to reveal Lord Rathbone’s identity against your wishes.”
“It is all right, Betsy. You meant it for the best,” said Verity. It was the most she had said all day.
Silence fell again, broken once more by Mrs. Arnold. “You do love him, Verity. Since that is true, it is not such a bad bargain. Eventually Lord Rathbone must come to love you as well.”
“I tell myself that must be true, Betsy. But how can it be so when I know what his feelings are for me? He despises me, Betsy.”
Verity did not look at Mrs. Arnold,
but there was such flat conviction in her voice that Mrs. Arnold realized the depth of the despair that gripped her. Not for the first time, Mrs. Arnold was left with nothing to say.
* * *
Chapter 22
Lord Rathbone returned to his town house at an unusually early hour.
The porter who opened the front door to his lordship was astounded to see his master before midnight. Casting a furtive glance at his lordship’s closed visage, however, the servantman thought it prudent to stay his greeting. His lordship appeared to be in a rare tweek, he thought.
Indeed, Lord Rathbone might have agreed with his henchman’s assessment if he had been at all aware of it. He passed into the house, tossing his hat and gloves to the porter. “Send a bottle of brandy up to me,” he ordered. Without glancing round or waiting for acknowledgment of his order, he swiftly climbed the stairs.
A fire had been prepared in the sitting room. Lord Rathbone cast himself into the wingback chair and put back his head, his eyes closing. His thoughts were not pleasant ones. Despite the round of entertainments that he had plunged himself into upon his return to London, he had been unable to banish from his mind the Pettiforth house party.
The day following his return, he had gone to call on his mother, wanting to have the unpleasant duty over quickly.
Lady Rathbone had listened without comment to his curt, abridged report of what he had found at the Pettiforths. He had not mentioned Miss Worth even in passing; but he had told her ladyship about his aunt and his cousin. At the end, Lady Rathbone said only, “‘Tis a pity that you took such an aversion to the connection.”
Lord Rathbone had stared grimly at his mother. “I do not intend to hasten off to find another candidate, ma’am.”
“I have not suggested it, George,” Lady Rathbone had said.
Lord Rathbone had entered her ladyship’s sitting room prepared for a battle of wills. Lady Rathbone’s inexplicable complacency had denied him an emotional release that he badly needed, and it angered him to an insensible degree. He had given a jerky bow and strode out of the room, seething.
The white-hot anger and resentment had inevitably cooled, leaving exposed the true underlying emotions that now racked him. Lord Rathbone sighed, passing his hand wearily over his face. He bitterly regretted all that had happened. It could all be laid to the door of his damnable pride and self-consequence.
If he had it to do over again, he would have shrugged off Miss Worth’s assessment of his character. What had she meant to the scheme of his world, after all? Miss Worth had stood in the capacity of a hired companion. She should never have attained such prominence in his thoughts nor such total focus in his attentions.
He knew now that at some point he had crossed a line, all unknowingly, when what had begun as sport had become of utmost seriousness.
It was only by slow degrees that he had begun to understand what he felt toward Miss Worth. By the time he had, it had become too late, either to draw back from the precipice, or to speak the glimmerings of his heart.
The night of the ball had spelled the end of anything that he might otherwise have hoped for, because he had made of Miss Worth a public spectacle.
The whisperings of his conscience continued to haunt him. He, who had endured all manner of slander and backbiting from the time of his infancy, had inflicted like torment upon another fellow creature.
Lord Rathbone uttered a bark of harsh laughter. He had sworn with revulsion that he would never beget a bastard because he would not watch another subjected to the same treatment that had been his portion. Instead, he had destroyed a young woman’s reputation and her right to self-respect. He was no better than those others had been—in fact, he was worse, for he had continued in his chosen path despite having realized what he felt toward her.
The servant entered, carrying a bottle of brandy and glasses on a tray. As he set down the tray, he said, “My lord, there is a gentleman wishing to see you.”
“Send whoever it is away. I don’t care to see anyone,” snapped Lord Rathbone, rising from the chair. He crossed to the occasional table and took hold of the bottle.
The servantman watched, perturbed, as a generous amount of brandy was splashed into the glass. It was not like his lordship to drink alone or in such quantity, as he had for some nights past. Perhaps a diversion would be just the thing to turn his lordship from what were obviously unpleasant, brooding thoughts. “The gentleman was quite insistent. Adamantly so, I might say, my lord. He sent up his card.”
With an impatient scowl, Lord Rathbone sharply set down the bottle so that he could take the calling card. His eyes fell on the inscription. He was very still for a long moment, then slowly raised his head to stare unseeing at the wall opposite.
“My lord? Shall I tell the gentleman to go?”
Lord Rathbone turned his head. There was such a grim expression on his face that his serving man was startled. “No. No, send him up.”
Not at all certain that he had done the right thing after all, the servant went away to carry out his lordship’s order. Presently he returned, accompanied by a tall, well-built gentleman attired in riding dress.
The visitor strode into the room with the self-assurance of a man completely aware of his own capabilities. His sharp gaze traveled the sitting room before settling upon the lone occupant.
Lord Rathbone had been leaning on his hands upon the occasional table. Now he straightened, his eyes meeting and clashing with his visitor’s hard stare. “That will be all, Booker,” said Lord Rathbone quietly.
When the servant had withdrawn, Lord Rathbone indicated a wingback chair. “Pray make yourself at ease, Sir Charles. May I offer you a brandy?”
“I shall stand, my lord. I have not come on a social call,” said Sir Charles Worth in a clipped voice.
Lord Rathbone corked the brandy bottle. “I had not thought you had. You have come on your sister’s behalf. I am correct, am I not? You are Miss Verity Worth’s brother?”
Sir Charles smiled, but the expression did not lighten the hard look in his eyes or about his mouth. “You do not seem surprised to see me, my lord.”
“Once I had your card in my hand, it seemed to me inevitable that this interview would take place.” A muscle jumped in Lord Rathbone’s taut jaw. With suppressed violence, he said, “Since the moment I had the misfortune to meet your sister, Sir Charles, the fates have been damnable!”
Sir Charles narrowly regarded the viscount for a moment. He came to a decision. “I’ll take that brandy, my lord.”
“Will you, indeed? Then you do not mean to run me through just yet,” said Lord Rathbone, throwing a challenging glance over his shoulder as he turned to the serving tray.
Sir Charles gave a short laugh. His teeth flashed in a grin, yet when he spoke his voice was very cold. “Not just yet,” he agreed.
Sir Charles accepted the glass that the viscount held out to him. At his host’s grave gesture, he walked over to a wingback chair and sat down. Sir Charles waited until Lord Rathbone was seated opposite him before speaking again. Then he said, “I arrived home yesterday to discover my sister sitting amongst the holland covers in an empty house. It was a pretty tale that I bullied out of her and she still would have kept back from me any mention of your name except for the timely intervention of a friend.”
“That would be Betsy Arnold,” interposed Lord Rathbone coolly. He swirled the brandy in his glass, watching the amber liquid with a detached air.
“As you say, my lord.” Sir Charles tossed off his measure of brandy. He set the glass down with a distinct clink. The gaze that he leveled on his lordship was glittering. “Now we come to it, my lord.”
“You mean to call me out,” stated Lord Rathbone.
“I mean to kill you,” corrected Sir Charles.
At the flat words, Lord Rathbone raised his brows, somewhat nettled. “That might perhaps be more difficult than you anticipate, Sir Charles. I am accounted a fair shot and a dan
gerous swordsman.”
“Whilst I have made it my business to cut down my enemies with the least said or done,” said Sir Charles softly. There was a menace in the very way he held himself. He was still seated in the wingback, but he gave the impression of being on a tightly coiled spring.
Lord Rathbone laughed, suddenly and genuinely amused. “You have the advantage of me there, I fear. You are a soldier to the bone, no doubt, and will prove a ferocious fighter. Very well, then; I own to it. Perhaps after all you will kill me.”
“Or I shall see to it that you are wed to my sister.” The quiet words were said with a devilish grin.
Lord Rathbone was startled. His black brows snapped together in a heavy frown. “What do you mean? Miss Worth could not possibly wish to wed me. She holds me in the strongest aversion. That was made abundantly clear to me, believe me! Nor do I hold it against her, for I do not like myself very much. What I did was unpardonable, unforgivable!”
He had risen sharply to his feet as he spoke. He discovered the wine glass was clenched in his hand, the brandy still un-tasted. He crossed to the occasional table where he rid himself of it. He did not immediately turn. When he did, Sir Charles was startled by the blazing look in his eyes.
Lord Rathbone stared challengingly across the room at Sir Charles. “Very well!” he snapped. “You have the right to call me to account. Which form is it to take, sir? I am completely at your disposal.”
Sir Charles was swift of thought and he had had time to reflect. He had been startled and dismayed by the terms with which Lord Rathbone had castigated himself. He had believed the censure that his sister had come under to be grave, but in light of the viscount’s obvious self-loathing, he suspected that he had not been told the whole after all.
With a sinking feeling he wondered whether his sister had actually been seduced. Neither his sister nor Mrs. Arnold had admitted to more than that Lord Rathbone had caused Verity to become the object of gossip.
Deadly calm stole over him as he reviewed all that had been said and how Verity had exhibited some sort of strangled emotion over the question of the viscount’s fate. He recalled, too, that Mrs. Arnold had seemed torn between her loyalty to Verity and her sense of what was right.