Jane Feather

by Engagement at Beaufort Hall

  “Dear God in heaven.” Imogen leaned over and buried her face in her elbow-propped hands. “I feel sick, Esther.”

  “I feel a little queasy myself,” her sister said. “Confounded, anyway. What just happened?”

  “Charles committed professional suicide,” Imogen said. “At least that’s what it sounded like. Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to talk to anyone.” She stumbled to her feet, ignoring her friends’ exclamations of surprise and the excited chatter around them in the gallery as the court officers encouraged their speedy departure. Blindly she headed for the stairs that led down to the courtroom and the door to the hall outside. Esther followed on her heels, brushing aside Kate’s questions.

  It was cold in the hall, the doors to the street open as people streamed in and out, and Imogen took a deep, gulping breath and felt the nausea recede. Charles had done it—had stood up for what was right. And then she saw him. He was coming towards her across the hall. He had discarded his wig, robes, and the starched white bands, but he still wore the formal black suit and shirt with its high starched white collar. And there was a look in his eye that she couldn’t interpret.

  “Come,” he said, taking her hand. “We have some things to discuss. You’ll excuse us, Esther.” He nodded at Esther.

  “Of course,” she murmured helplessly, and watched as he led her sister away.

  Outside, Charles hailed a hackney and gave the Park Street address. “Shouldn’t you go back to Chambers?” Imogen regained her voice and her senses finally. “Surely they’ll want to know what happened.”

  “When I’m good and ready,” he responded. “Right now I have other priorities.” He sat back and pulled Imogen against him, so that her head was tucked against his shoulder. “I will say this just once. In this instance, you were right and I was wrong. What happened today is not, repeat not a precedent. Now, can we forget about the Warwicks and concentrate on our own renewed beginning?”

  “Yes, but . . . but what made you change your mind?” She pushed herself up against him. “I’m sorry, I know you’re giving me a gift horse and I shouldn’t look it in the mouth, but I need to know why you changed your mind.”

  “You are an impossible woman,” he said, shaking his head. “Very well. After you stormed out on me the other night, I combed through the files, reading with your eyes. As a result, I hired a private detective to follow Warwick until the day of the trial. He brought me the evidence I gave in court. Or rather that I persuaded Mrs. Warwick to give in court. Her husband did indeed visit her and try to force her with violence to withdraw her petition. He denied point-blank to me that he had seen his wife in the last few days, which meant that I was legally released from my obligation to continue his defense.”

  “So your career is safe?”

  “I expect it will go through a rough patch,” he said with a rueful smile. “The legality of hiring private detectives to find evidence against one’s own client is shaky at best. But my reputation has weathered worse. Besides, I have every intention of taking a long honeymoon.”

  “You haven’t proposed to me yet. In fact,” she added, “I don’t even think you proposed to me the first time we got engaged. It just happened.”

  “Really?” Charles sounded surprised. “I was sure I must have said something.”

  “Well, you didn’t. As I remember someone sent a notice to the Times, a ring appeared from somewhere, and it was a fait accompli.”

  “You aren’t going to expect me to go down on one knee, are you?” He looked rather alarmed as he reached into his breast pocket.

  Imogen laughed. “No, that’s absurd. What have you got there?”

  He opened his hand. “The original one that you sent back to me, and then, in case that had too many bad memories, I bought another one. Choose which one you’d like.”

  Imogen looked at the two rings on his palm. “I always rather liked this one.” She took the simple platinum band studded with seed pearls and sapphires and slipped it on her finger. “I’ll keep this one, if that’s all right.”

  “Oh, more than all right,” he said cheerfully, slipping the emerald and diamond circlet back into his waistcoat pocket. “Actually, this one was only on approval anyway. I’ll take it back tomorrow.” His eyes danced with laughter.

  She shook her head sadly. “I hope I can grow accustomed to living with a Scrooge.”

  “No, merely a practical man,” he corrected, taking her hands in both of his and bringing them to his lips. “I love you, Imogen Carstairs.”

  “And I you, Charles Riverdale.”

  Epilogue

  “We seem to have all the original wedding presents back,” Imogen observed, looking over the array of china, silver, and glass now assembled in the drawing room at the house on Park Street. “I’ll have to write all those thank-you letters again, having written them once, then written apologies when they were returned.”

  “You shouldn’t keep changing your mind,” Charles responded with a smile, carefully picking up a Sevres vase. “This is beautiful.”

  “Yes, it’s from Aunt Agatha’s collection. The complete collection should go to Duncan when he gets married . . . if he gets married.” She cast Charles a sideways glance. “I suppose he might not.”

  Charles looked at her. “What are you saying, Imogen?”

  “Nothing, really. Only that not everyone gets married.”

  “True enough. And Duncan is certainly less likely to do so than most,” Charles said calmly. “I’m assuming you’ve discovered your brother’s secret, Gen?”

  “You knew?”

  “I’ve known for a long time. I walked in on him in a compromising position, shall we say, sometime last year. He’s been terrified of me ever since.”

  “Which is why he gave you the shooting rights to Beaufort.” Imogen set a crystal decanter on the sideboard.

  “Probably,” Charles agreed with a shrug. “If he hadn’t, my darling, you and I would not be here now.” He beckoned. “Come here and let me kiss you. It’s been at least an hour since I did it last.”

  He was quite right, Imogen thought, as she came into his arms. And Duncan oddly seemed more relaxed around his sisters, although not a word had been spoken about that afternoon. All was for the best in the best of all possible worlds, she thought. Sometimes, Pangloss had a point. Her lips parted beneath the insistent pressure of her husband’s kiss and she let her head fall back, her hips pushing forward against the hardening rise of his penis.

  It was a long time later that Imogen stirred from her languid sprawl in front of the bedroom fire. “You’ll be late to fetch Jamie.”

  Charles pulled himself up with up a groan of effort. He stretched his naked body and then reached down to pull Imogen to her feet. “Dorothea is expecting me at three. It’s only two thirty. Are we taking him to the zoo?”

  “Depends on the weather. It looked like rain earlier.” Imogen shrugged into her dressing gown and went to the window. “Good, the sun’s shining, and he really wants a ride on the elephant.” She chuckled. “I remember riding the elephant when I was little. It was an amazing feeling, being so high.”

  “You don’t think he’s too young?” Charles stepped into his trousers. “He’s not three yet.”

  “I’ll ride it with him,” she said. “He’ll feel safe enough then.”

  Charles smiled and buttoned his shirt. His little son adored his stepmother, almost as much as the child’s father did. Watching the burgeoning love between Imogen and the little boy filled him with a profound happiness.

  “Dorothea has a new man in her life,” he said casually, tying his tie, watching Imogen in the mirror.

  “Oh? Serious?”

  “It seems so.” He reached for his jacket. “I think, if I pressed her a little, she would be prepared to let Jamie live with us. What would you say?”

  “You know perfectly well what I would say.” Imogen came up behind him, putting her arms around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder as she smiled in the
mirror. “I’d love to have him here—he can inaugurate the nursery. He won’t be alone in there for long.”

  Charles reached up and put his hands over hers, watching her expression in the mirror. “What are you saying?”

  She shrugged. “Only that I think there’s a distinct possibility that Jamie won’t be alone in the nursery for more than a few months.”

  He unclasped her hands from around his neck and turned around, his expression grave. “How sure are you, Gen?”

  “Well, we haven’t exactly been trying not to conceive,” she said, “and I seem rather sick every morning . . . so . . .” She gave another eloquent shrug. “Do you mind?”

  “Mind? Of course I don’t mind.” His smile seemed to encompass his entire countenance. “I think it’s wonderful.” He kissed her, slipping his hands around her waist and lifting her against him. “I suppose you’ve told Esther?”

  The quick guilty flash in her eyes was answer enough. He laughed, lifting her higher. “Don’t worry, I know where I stand vis-à-vis your sister, my sweet. Is she prepared to be godmother?”

  “Yes . . . and you come first, husband. Always and in everything, as you well know.” She tapped his nose with an admonitory finger. “But Esther guessed.”

  “And I didn’t.”

  “You’re a man,” she said. “And thank God for it.”

  He let her slip to the floor, his hands still at her waist. “Oh, how I love you. Every day I am amazed at how deeper and deeper the love grows.” His eyes glowed, that deep velvet brown, and Imogen nodded slowly.

  “It is amazing, isn’t it? Every day . . . every single day . . . deeper and deeper.” She pulled his head down to hers, her hungry lips finding his, tasting the sweetness of a love that had sent its roots through rocky soil into the rich, deep earth of fulfillment.

  Continue reading for an exclusive excerpt from

  SUMMERSET ABBEY

  By T.J. Brown

  1913: In a sprawling manor on the outskirts of London, three young women seek to fulfill their destinies and desires amidst the unspoken rules of society and the distant rumblings of war....

  Rowena Buxton

  Sir Philip Buxton raised three girls into beautiful and capable young women in a bohemian household that defied Edwardian tradition. Eldest sister, Rowena, was taught to value people, not wealth or status. But everything she believes will be tested when Sir Philip dies, and the girls must live under their uncle’s guardianship at the vast family estate, Summerset Abbey. Standing up for a beloved family member sequestered to the “under class” in this privileged new world, and drawn into the Cunning Coterie, an exclusive social circle of aristocratic “rebels,” Rowena must decide where her true passions—and loyalties—lie.

  Victoria Buxton

  Frail in body but filled with an audacious spirit, Victoria secretly dreams of attending university to become a botanist like her father. But this most unladylike wish is not her only secret. For Victoria has stumbled upon a family scandal that, if revealed, has the potential to change lives forever....

  Prudence Tate

  Prudence was lovingly brought up alongside Victoria and Rowena, and their bond is as strong as blood. But by birth she is a governess’s daughter, and to the Lord of Summerset Abbey, that makes her a commoner who must take her true place in society—as lady’s maid to her beloved “sisters.” But Pru doesn’t belong in the downstairs world of the household staff any more than she belongs upstairs with the Buxton girls. And when a young lord catches her eye, she begins to wonder if she’ll ever truly carve out a place for herself at Summerset Abbey....

  chapter

  one

  Prudence Tate paused before the arched doorway to allow Victoria time to regain her composure. In front of her, the sanctuary was so filled with black feathered hats, it looked as though a flock of ravens might have overrun the church. The scent of stale incense, decaying flowers, and ancient prayers permeated the foyer, but Prudence barely noticed these things.

  Next to her, Victoria’s slight body trembled with grief and exhaustion. “Do I really have to do this?” Victoria asked, her voice more of a wish than a whisper.

  Born too soon to a dying mother, Victoria had always been frail, but what she lacked in health and vigor she more than made up for in temperament. Only the death of her father had lately diminished the audacious glint in her china-blue eyes.

  “We have to.” Prudence slipped her arm lightly around the younger girl’s shoulders. Tears slid down Victoria’s face and Prudence feared she would fall apart completely before they made their way down the aisle.

  Funerals were as scripted as coronations, and custom dictated the familial order of the church procession. Rowena, as Victoria’s older sister, had gone ahead of them on her uncle’s arm and was no doubt waiting for Victoria at their pew. Sir Philip Buxton’s closest contemporaries, all men in fussy black mourning coats, stood behind them, waiting to go in. They fidgeted, looking at anything but the two girls.

  Tradition dictated that Prudence, as the governess’s daughter, wait in the back of the procession with the staff, but Sir Philip’s bohemian household had never given a fig for tradition.

  Looking at Victoria, Prudence felt her chest squeeze around her heart so tightly that she couldn’t breathe. Recent weeks had taken such a toll on the girl that even though the woolen, crepe-trimmed mourning dress had just been fitted, it hung on her as if there were nothing of substance underneath. Victoria had never been conventionally pretty; her face was too thin and her eyes were too big, but she usually displayed a vivacity that, in spite of her weak lungs, made her the most arresting person in the room. Today that vibrancy had dimmed and dark circles bruised her eyes.

  Prudence reached down and took a firm grip of Victoria’s hand. “Come. They’re waiting.”

  Victoria cast her a wobbly smile as they walked through the doorway and down the aisle to where Rowena and their uncle, the Earl of Summerset, waited.

  When they reached the pew, the Earl gave Prudence a look so disdainful that she almost stumbled. His nose twitched with contempt, as if she were one step away from an Irish peasant with dung still clinging to her shoes.

  Before she’d died, Prudence’s mother had gently warned her that even though she’d been raised as one of Sir Philip’s girls, there were many who would think of her as nothing more than a cheeky and presumptuous servant. Evidently, Lord Summerset was among that group.

  Rowena, on the other side of her uncle, looked beautiful in a stylish silk crepe mourning gown that skimmed her ankles. A cunning little toque perched atop her upswept dark hair, and she wore a gold locket clasped around her neck. Rowena held out her hand and, relieved, Prudence reached out and clasped it with her own. Without letting go of either girl, she and Victoria scooted past the Earl to join Rowena.

  They stood as the rest of the procession solemnly made their way to their proper places, but Prudence, thankful to be tucked firmly between the two people she loved best in the world, took no notice.

  A lump rose in her throat as she caught sight of the ornate casket, draped with a full spray of lilies, carnations, and palm fronds. The only reason she was here, clutching Rowena’s and Victoria’s hands in hers instead of shrinking into the background with the other servants, was the kindness of the man who lay inside. After Prudence’s father had died, her mother, who had worked at Sir Philip’s estate as a girl, had been sent to attend to Rowena and Victoria’s ailing mother. When his wife died, Sir Philip asked her to stay on to help raise the girls, and Prudence, exactly between his daughters in age, became part of the family. Prudence, who volunteered her time at several different poorhouses in the city, knew exactly what happened to young girls left alone in the world. She would forever be grateful to Sir Philip for not allowing that to happen to her.

  She blinked away her tears and occupied herself by looking at the rest of the congregation. Only a few looked familiar. Among them were Rupert Brooke, the high-strung and handsome young poet; Ben
Tillett, the iron-jawed union leader; and Roger Fry, the controversial artist responsible for bringing London’s shocked

  attention to postimpressionism some years prior. These were some of Sir Philip’s friends, a motley collection of artists, intellectuals, and misfits.

  Because the Earl had arranged the funeral, most of the people in attendance were his peers, men from the House of Lords and others from the cream of London society.

  Sir Philip would have hated it.

  The beautiful gold arches and polished marble of St. Bride’s Church gleamed, just as they had the few times the family had attended church. Sir Philip had chosen St. Bride’s because, as he used to say, “Sir Christopher Wren built the kind of church that God might actually enjoy.”

  Gradually, Prudence became aware of a young man staring at her from across the aisle. Her eyes darted in his direction, then away. Moments later, unable to help herself, she glanced back to see whether he was still looking at her. He was. She turned slightly and stared fixedly at the bronze candelabra to the left of him, her cheeks burning.

  Victoria leaned around her to whisper to Rowena. “Look, Lord Billingsly has noticed our Prudence.”

  “I’m right here,” Prudence whispered, and gave both their hands a hard squeeze for emphasis.

  She didn’t look his way again.

  Once the service started, Prudence sank into a well of grief that threatened to drown her. The waves of it lapped at her from all sides, covered her head, and made sight almost impossible. Inside, her heart broke and a waterfall of sorrow poured from the cracks. On one side, Victoria sobbed quietly, while Rowena’s stiff resolve buoyed her from the other. She clung to their hands as the service passed in a blur of speeches.