by Mary Balogh
Henry stared. "Then how came you to marry me?" she asked.
"That is another matter entirely," he replied. "Oliver and Stephen, as young men will, took the matter very seriously when I announced my membership to them. And I remember jokingly pointing out that only Stephen stood between Oliver and an almost-certain future claim to the dukedom. Stephen was only nineteen at the time, but he fancied himself in love with a neighbor's daughter. He seemed in hourly expectation of making a declaration."
He paused and took a long swallow of his drink.
"And?" Henry prompted.
"And he died in a riding accident before he could make that declaration," Eversleigh said harshly. "We were on a hunt. His saddle strap broke when he was jumping a fence. He broke his neck."
Henry found that she was having difficulty breathing. "You suspect that Oliver had something to do with it?" she almost whispered.
"Oh, he was nowhere near when it happened," he said. "The saddle strap was badly worn through."
"It was an accident, then?"
"Stephen was a very keen and careful horseman. He would let no one tend his horse or his gear for him. A knife could have been used carefully enough to give the impression of fraying."
"But you believe Oliver did it?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"I have no proof and I have never confronted him with my suspicions," he said.
"What has all this to do with me, Marius?" she whispered.
"You are my wife," he said. "My sons will be born from your body."
"Oh, no!" she cried, leaping to her feet. "You are wrong, Marius. I know Oliver. He is not like that. He is kind and caring and he is hurt by your coldness to him. You have allowed grief for your brother to poison your mind. It is not true. You must see that."
He looked at her, a twisted smile on his face. "Keep him at a distance, Henry," he said. "Your safety matters to me.
"But you are wrong," she insisted. "Oh, somehow I shall prove it and bring you two together again."
"Then nothing I have said has made any difference?" he asked, his eyelids masking the expression in his eyes.
Henry hesitated. She was suddenly plagued by a thoroughly novel desire to rush across to where he still sat in his chair, and cradle his head against her breast. She had never seen him vulnerable, had never even dreamed that he had any weakness. At the same time, she could not agree to humor him by rejecting Oliver, especially after the transaction of that morning.
"You are wrong," she said, I know you are. I have promised a dance to your cousin tonight and it would be ill-mannered to refuse him now. I cannot turn aside his friendship, Marius, but I will promise to speak with him only in public places, where there are plenty of onlookers. Will that relieve your mind?"
"You will do what you will, Henry," he said, shrugging, and I will do what I must. Come, let us go in to dinner. The chef will be resigning in good earnest if we keep him waiting any longer."
He rose from his chair and extended his arm to lead her out.
Chapter 8
Penelope was in hiding and seething with a feeling of ill-usage. Philip was out with the duke. He had been taken to see Jackson's boxing saloon and even to watch a sparring bout between Eversleigh and the great man himself. Penelope had not been permitted to go, though she had begged and pleaded and threatened. All that the threats had accomplished was to win her a long, cool stare through her brother-in-law's quizzing glass and a very disdainful comment.
"Really, Penny," Eversleigh had said, "if you must use the language of the stable, I shall have to send you to the stable and have you pitch some manure. However, I fear that you might corrupt my grooms, my dear girl."
So Penelope had been left at home. And to add insult to injury, Miss Manford had come up with the idea that this was the ideal time to continue her charge's embroidery lessons, which had been progressing in a very desultory manner for several weeks.
When Miss Manford left the drawing room to fetch the cloth, needles, and silken thread, Penelope came to a desperate decision. She would not be there when Manny came back! She decided on a ground-floor room as a hiding place because the children rarely had occasion to go down there. She darted out of the room, shutting the door firmly in the face of an indignant Brutus, raced along to the staircase, and peered cautiously down. Luck was with her-there were no footmen in the hallway below. She tiptoed down the stairs and across to the green salon and quickly let herself inside. She settled herself comfortably on a window seat behind the heavy velvet draperies, clasped her arms around her drawn-up legs, rested her chin on her knees, and began to indulge in her favorite indoor activity, daydreaming.
Poor Miss Manford was left to search the house for her charge. Fortunately for Penelope, she did not think of taking Brutus with her. She did look into the salon but did not search it because it seemed an unlikely place for the girl to have gone. She did knock timidly on James Ridley's office door and ask if he had seen the missing child.
"Don't distress yourself, Eugenia," he said soothingly, "she has probably gone to the kitchen for some food or has played a prank on you and has gone outside for some air."
"Oh, dear, but she is not in the kitchen," wailed Miss Manford, "and she can't have gone outside-she was wearing only slippers and has no bonnet or gloves. Where can the dear child be?"
"Dear child!" scoffed Ridley. "The girl needs a good spanking for upsetting you so. What is she supposed to be doing?"
"We were to embroider," Miss Manford said, "but she does not take to it. I fear very much that I shall never be able to teach her a lady's accomplishments."
"Maybe not," he said, "but I certainly feel that her disappearance has been explained. Depend upon it, she is hiding and will come out when she feels that there is no longer any danger of having to do her lesson."
"Oh, do you really think so, James?" Miss Manford asked, clasping her hands to her bosom. "How comforting you always are! So calm and sensible!"
He smiled. "You go back upstairs and ring for some tea," he suggested, "and don't worry about Miss Penelope anymore." And he patted her lightly on the shoulder as she turned to leave the room.
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Penelope was feeling a little bored by the time the salon door was opened and she heard the butler speaking to an unidentified visitor.
"You may wait in here, sir, until her Grace returns," he said. "I shall send some refreshment."
The visitor paced the room after the door had closed. Penelope peered cautiously around the curtains. When she saw that it was Mr. Cranshawe, she drew back into the shadows again and stayed very still. She had met the man only on one occasion when she and Phil had been out walking with Henry and he had stopped to talk, but she did not like him. He had been too friendly, too charming. His smile had been too broad, too practiced. She certainly did not want to be caught in the predicament of having to make polite small talk with him while they waited for Henry to return from her afternoon of visiting.
The wait was not a long one. A few minutes after the butler had brought a tray with decanter and glasses, Penel-, ope heard the door open and a rustle of skirts entering the room.
"Oliver?" Henry said. "I did not expect to see you here. "
"My dear cousin," he replied, crossing the room, clasping one of her hands in his and holding it to his heart, "I had to come here. Since we danced at Lady Sefton's ball four nights ago, I have hardly seen you. I have almost felt as if you were avoiding me."
"Don't be silly," she said matter-of-factly, and pulled away her hand. "It seems to me I have seen you each day and that we have talked or greeted each other on each occasion. "
"Yes, but always in a crowd of people," he complained. "You know that I feel closer to you than that, Henry."
"You must not say so," she said. "We are friends merely, and I have many friends."
"Oh, come, my dear, we are more than ordinary friends, surely," he cajoled, lowering his voice.
<
br /> Henry stared. "You have been kind to me," she conceded uncertainly.
"Are you referring to the money you owe me, Henry?" he asked. "I have told you to forget it. Is that what has become between us in the last few days? Are you embarrassed?" He tried to take her hand in his, but she eluded him.
"Oliver," she said, moving behind a chair and placing her hands firmly on the back of it, "I shall repay the money, as I have promised. I am not embarrassed in your presence. I acknowledge you as a friend, but there is no other bond between us."
"Are you afraid?" he asked. "Has Marius threatened you since he came upon us in the park?"
"No, he has not!" she exclaimed firmly. "And, Oliver, I do not like the assumption you seem to be making that we are more than friends."
"You know that I admire you greatly," he said, coming around the chair and seizing her by the shoulders. "I cannot bear to see you with someone like Marius, Henry, who does not appreciate you and who disapproves of you and spies on you."
"He was not spying!" she cried indignantly.
"Have you not noticed, my dear, how he is always there whenever you and I meet? He is jealous. He has always had everything he wanted, Henry. There has never been anything he was denied. I hate to see him use you just as another possession. You deserve more."
"I believe you speak out of turn, sir," Henry said coldly. "It is of my husband and my marriage that you speak. They are not your concern."
"Oh, pardon me," he sighed, sinking into the nearest chair and hiding his face in his hands. "I have been unforgivably familiar. I just cannot bear to see a lovely, innocent little creature like you having to face the humiliation of having her husband flaunt his mistress before her face."
"What?"
He looked up, his face aghast. "Henry? You did not know?" he asked. "Oh, what have I said?"
"You will explain your meaning, sir," she said, her head held high but her face noticeably pale.
He groaned. "My wretched tongue!" he said. "But I may be wrong, Henry. In fact, I am sure I must be. Suzanne Broughton was his mistress before he met you. I am certain it cannot be so now. How could any man leave the embraces of so lovely a bride so soon?"
Henry said nothing. She clung to the back of the chair and stared at Oliver, seeing in her mind Marius dancing with Mrs. Broughton at the Sefton ball and on one or two other occasions, seeing him conversing with her during a soiree a few weeks before, seeing him sitting next to her at a recent dinner, seeing all the mature beauty and lure of the woman. And she had never even suspected. How naive she had been to assume that Marius was as satisfied by their sexless relationship as she was. And why did it hurt like a dozen sharp knives to think of that woman in his arms, that woman's hands in his hair, her lips on his? Henry's own lips parted in shock. The reason-of course! -was that she wanted Marius herself.
Cranshawe had risen and was looking at her in concern. "The best way to fight back is to show him that you do not care," he was saying. "Let me take you out one evening, Henry. Come to a masquerade with me."
"A masquerade?" she asked, dazed.
"Yes, Henry, a masquerade at the opera house. They are bright, gay entertainments. You would enjoy the evening. Your character cries out for more amusement than you can find in most drawing rooms."
"I do not believe I ought," she said doubtfully. "And I do not really wish to."
"You do not strike me as being the docile type of wife who would sit back and quietly endure her husband's neglect and infidelity," he wheedled.
She looked squarely at him. "Very well," she said impulsively, "I shall come." She did not pause to consider whether she really felt ill-used or neglected. She only felt bruised and bewildered.
He turned on her the full charm of his smile. "You will not regret it," he said. "I shall guarantee you a most entertaining evening, Henry. There is a masquerade on Wednesday night. Will you be free?"
"I shall," she said defiantly. "You will let me know when to expect you." She did not resist when Cranshawe lifted her hand to his lips, gazing into her eyes all the time.
He left immediately and Henry soon followed him out of the room.
Penelope lowered her legs painfully to the floor, one at a time, and flexed her neck and shoulders. As she crossed to the door and peered cautiously out, she could feel the blood hammering in her brain. She hoped that Phil was back already or would be back soon. She had a great deal that she was burning to confide in him. Seeing a footman with his back to her close to the outer door, she darted quickly from the salon and up the stairs.
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Miss Manford had no difficulty in persuading Penelope, at least, that it was time for bed that night. Philip, seeing his sister's eagerness to retire to her room, realized that something was brewing and did not employ his usual go-slow tactics.
Half an hour later, Penelope let herself into her brother's room through the connecting door. She crossed to the bed without the aid of a candle, climbed up onto the high mattress, and sat with her legs dangling over the side.
"You aren't sleeping, are you, Phil?" she whispered.
"Of course not, silly," his voice replied scornfully from the mound of pillows that she could see dimly in the darkness. "I knew you were coming."
"Henry is in trouble," she announced dramatically.
The dim shape of Philip was now clearly visible sitting up against the headboard. "Henry? In danger?" he asked excitedly. "I say, Pen. What has happened?"
"The toothpowder genius has some sort of hold over her," Penelope said. "I think she owes him money."
"Mr. Cranshawe?" Philip said. "I always knew there was something sinister about him."
Penelope gave her twin an exhaustive account of what she had heard in the green salon that afternoon.
"I say, Pen," Philip said when she had finished, "you really had an adventure. Are you not glad now that you weren't allowed to come to Jackson's with the duke and me?"
"I don't know about that," she replied, not so easily mollified. "But what are we to do, Phil? I don't believe what he said. I think his Grace really cares for Henry. He would not prefer this Mrs. Broughton. Otherwise, why did he marry Henry?"
"No, I don't believe it either," Philip agreed. "The duke is a great gun. But why would Henry owe old toothpowder money, Pen? And how much? Don't the duke give her enough?"
"I am certain he must," his sister replied. "He gives us lots. "
"Do you think she really wanted to go to that masquerade, Pen?"
"I think she was mad at what he said about his Grace, Penelope replied shrewdly. "But, Phil, if she owes him a great deal of money, don't he have some hold on her? Won't she always have to do what he says?"
"It must be a great deal," Philip said excitedly, "and it must have been for something that she could not go to his Grace about. I don't like it, Pen. We have to do some_.- thing to help."
"But what?"
"I don't know, but we have to try to find out more. And we have to protect Henry at this masquerade. I don't like the sound of that at all."
"You mean we are going to go there, too?" Penelope's eyes were as wide as saucers.
"I mean exactly that(" he said dramatically.
"But how?"
"This is what we have to work on," he replied, and they both lapsed into a thoughtful silence.
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Penelope and Philip were not the only ones to sit up late in a darkened bedroom that night. Henry sat propped up against her banked pillows staring into the darkness. She was feeling lost and confused. All her life she had felt in charge of most situations-bold, fearless, and independent. Even when she married Marius, she had felt in command of her fate. She had feared him a little, yes, but Henry was never one to back away from a challenge. She had been exhilarated by it.
Now, suddenly-and she did not know quite how it had happened-she felt vulnerabl
e. She felt guilty about having agreed to go to a masquerade with Oliver. Although she had refused to believe in Marius' suspicions, she had made an effort to cool her friendship with his heir. She certainly had intended to keep her promise to see him only in public. And yet she had agreed to go with him to a place where really respectable people did not go. She had asked Marius once to take her to a masquerade and he had explained that they were rather wild and vulgar affairs, not suitable for a lady of her station.
And now, in the privacy of her own room, Henry had to admit to herself that she had been cleverly manipulated into accepting the invitation. Oliver had played his cards very well. Had he really let slip the suspicion about Marius and Suzanne Broughton, or had he deliberately divulged the information? His words were very probably true, she thought, but why had he wanted her to know? If he were really the friend he claimed to be, would he not do all in his power to protect her from the knowledge? And why would he wish to take her to a place that was not quite proper? For the first time Henry felt a twinge of uneasiness about Oliver Cranshawe.
She considered sending him a note the following morning to cancel the outing. But she realized with a dim premonition of dread that she could not afford to offend Oliver. He could press for an early repayment of her debt; he could tell Marius the truth. He had it in his power to make life very unpleasant for her. Henry was beginning to wonder if she had been very foolhardy to confide in him and to accept such a large loan from him.
She thought of going to Marius and telling him the whole. It would be wonderful to go now, she thought, into his room and tell him what had happened, to beg him to pay off Oliver Cranshawe for her, to put her head against his chest and close her eyes and relax. Would he put his arms around her and kiss her as he had that day when Peter had been so horrid, that time when she had felt such powerful and frightening sensations pulse downward from her lips to her breasts to her womb and her thighs that she had panicked? It would be such bliss just to go to him and let him take charge of her life. And he would do so, she knew.