by Jude Knight
Overton snorted. “Weren’t you listening, Aldridge? I can’t. The doctors told me, and I’ve tested it often enough.” He giggled. “Throughout His Majesty’s kingdom, on two continents and assorted islands. Tall, short, fair, dark, fat, thin. I’ve ploughed them all.” He shook his head, the melancholy settling over him again. “She was right. My damned, lying, cheating wife was right. I’m half a man, Aldridge. And the last of the Overtons. When I’m gone, the King gets the lot.”
And with that, he suddenly put his head on the table, and went to sleep.
He slept through the removal to, and from, the carriage, and the subsequent transfer to a guest bed in the heir’s wing. Aldridge set a servant to watch him, to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit in the night, then returned to his own suite.
But there was no rest for Aldridge here tonight. He tossed and turned for a while, but his friend’s calm voice kept echoing in his head, retelling the horrors of betrayal and loss. After a while, he dressed again, and told the sleepy footman on duty in the front hall, “If I am needed, I will be at Mrs Darling’s house.” Becky would comfort him. He needed Becky tonight.
Becky was alarmed to be shaken awake from a deep sleep.
“Sarah?” She sat bolt upright.
The maid shook her head. “Not the little miss. She is sound asleep, the lamb. It’s the Master. Lord Aldridge. He’s at your other house, ma’am.”
Becky was already out of bed, hurrying any-old-how into the clothes she had laid out to wear in the morning. What could be wrong? She’d thought he would be occupied with his friend for another few days, and had planned to spend them here with Sarah.
In scant minutes, she was downstairs and outside, surprised to find the street empty except for the two burly footmen who waited to escort her and her maid.
“His lordship said ’twould take too long to put the carriage to, ma’am,” one of them apologised. “Said ’twould be faster to walk.”
True. It was just two streets away, but what could be so urgent? Concern propelled her through the dark streets, her escort hurrying to keep up.
In her own front parlour, Aldridge stood when she entered, his brow creased even as he smiled. Around his eyes she could see the tiny wrinkles that only appeared when he was deeply distressed. “I am a brute to drag you out in the night like this,” he said.
And yet here you are, she thought, but didn’t say. His attempt at a sheepish smile was a failure, but the flaws in his usual elegance told their own story. His hair stood on end from tugging, his cravat was loosely knotted, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his shirt cuffs left loose. “Never mind, my love,” she told him. “Tell me what you need.”
“Just you, Becky. Just you. Come up to bed.”
He was, by turns, wild and tender, and she responded, as she always did. The only reference he made to whatever had brought him here was a wish that the week were over and Overton back in the North Country. “Three more days, and I’ll load him into his carriage. His retainers will have him sober long before he gets home.”
Three days. She could wait three days to tell Aldridge her problem.
Chapter Ten
In the end, it was closer to three weeks. Aldridge said goodbye to his friend, then went off to Margate, summoned by His Grace, the Duke of Haverford to explain the scandal that had erupted at a Society masquerade ball the night after Astley’s. The gossip rags were relatively circumspect, aware of the Duke’s reach. But the mother of one of Sarah’s friends, Mrs Harrowmead, was an eyewitness and poured it all into the ears of the assembled mothers when they walked with the girls in the park.
“There was a queue. Can you believe it? Aldridge and Overton turned up hoping to find volunteers and had an excessive number of applicants for the last two... encounters. So they decided to conduct interviews. All very discreet, nothing stated plainly, but the word travelled right through the house, and—I swear to you, my dears, I saw it with my own eyes—the ladies formed a queue in the hall outside the study, and went in one at a time.”
“But... their husbands?” protested one of the other women, leaning forward so she didn’t miss a word, her eyes wide and avid.
“They were mostly widows, dear. One or two ladies whose husbands do not seem to mind—you know the sort—but Major Lord Vincent came and dragged his wife away; literally dragged her, and she screaming that he deserved to be Aldridged. Darlings, I did not know where to look.” Mrs Harrowmead’s shudder of horror would not have shamed Mrs Siddons.
“Dreadful!” the other women agreed, with great delight.
“But that wasn’t the worst. After they had chosen the... successful ladies, they went back to dancing. I think they must have arranged to meet them later, do you not agree? They were but an hour in the study, and they must have interviewed at least nine ladies. I did not see the whole, for Edward disapproved heartily when he noticed I was watching, and took me off to dance.”
“Then Lord Ballingcroft arrived, looking for Overton.”
Mrs Harrowmead paused for dramatic effect.
“He challenged him to a duel, and Overton planted him a facer right in the middle of the Douglas Reel!”
The response was suitably shocked, both at Overton’s disregard of etiquette, and at Mrs Harrowmead’s use of schoolboy slang. She’d not have heard that from her husband. A careless younger brother, perhaps?
“Then Ballingcroft pulled a sword out of his cane, and Aldridge—I did not perfectly see how, but Aldridge took it from him, and, my loves, he told Lord Ballingcroft that he did not deserve Lady Ballingcroft, and if the lady ever did stray, Lord Ballingcroft would have brought it on himself, for he was an unfaithful husband and a poor...” here the lady blushed. “Um. Lord Aldridge implied that Lord Ballingcroft was inadequate in...”
“Bed sport,” supplied one of the other women, bluntly.
“Then what happened?” asked Becky, who had seen Aldridge’s black eye when he called on his way to Margate.
“A brawl, Mrs Winstanley,” Mrs Harrowmead said. “Lord Ballingcroft hit Lord Aldridge, and Lord Overton hit Lord Ballingcroft, and some other gentlemen joined in, and even some ladies, and Edward took me home.” The lady was clearly disappointed. “And Lord Ballingcroft is at home with a broken jaw, or so they say. So there will be no duel.”
“But the newssheet said...” the lady who had spoken of bed sport was clearly intrigued. “How did they manage it?” And she quoted the gossip column entry from memory. “‘Lord O. and the M.M., despite the unfortunate incident, apparently found time to complete the game bag required to win the bet with Mr H.’ When did they find time? And the energy?”
Becky thought to herself that this lady’s husband would be wise to keep her away from Aldridge. Her own experience with Aldridge suggested several plausible answers, but she didn’t enlighten the company. Mrs Winstanley would have no idea about such scandalous goings-on.
Time to collect Sarah from the skipping game by the pond and make their way home.
Aldridge, as always when he had been with his father, returned jittery and bitter. No point in talking to him until he could think straight. All he wanted was the comfort of Becky’s body, and for days, she barely left the town-house’s great bed, as he expended his nervous energy and slowly regained his poise.
Becky kept putting off the conversation they must have, until one morning when they lay half asleep in the aftermath of a particularly energetic bout of morning bed sport.
Aldridge, who was propped on one elbow idly tracing patterns on her belly with one finger, commented, “You’ve put on a bit of round, my love.” He circled his finger around her navel. “Eating well?”
“No more than usual,” Becky said. “It isn’t that.”
He paid no attention, tracing up her torso to cup one breast. “Here, too. I’m not complaining. I like it.”
“It isn’t food, Aldridge.”
He was occupied teasing one nipple back to erect attention with his finger. “Looks good enough to
taste.”
“Aldridge, I need you to listen.”
He looked up, his laughing eyes meeting hers. “What is it, my darling Mrs Darling? A problem? Tell me, and I’ll fix it.” Then he curled in to touch her nipple with his tongue.
Becky twisted out of his reach. They were going to discuss this now, before she lost her nerve again. Aldridge was the most indulgent of protectors, but she had no idea how he would react.
“Please, Aldridge.”
He sat up then, propping himself against some of the pillows that littered the bed. His eyes were still dancing, but he composed the rest of his face.
“Very well, my dear. What is it? Have you run through your allowance? Do you want to break our contract and run off with the Prince of Wales? Are you about to confess to being a spy for Napoleon?”
“I am with child.” There. It was said.
His eyes went still and wide.
“With child,” he repeated.
She nodded.
“How?”
“The usual way,” she snapped back before she could catch the words on her tongue. Yes, he always took precautions and so did she, but everyone knew precautions didn’t always work. Why was it that a wanted child was a credit to a man’s virility, and an unwanted one the fault of its mother?
He quirked a smile at her, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, yes, and quite a few unusual ways, as I recall. But it gives us a problem, does it not?”
‘Us.’ Thank God. Becky thought she’d hidden her sigh of relief, but Aldridge knew her too well.
“Did you think I would cast you into the streets, Becky? Shame on you.”
Perhaps he didn’t realise. “I won’t be able to fulfil all the second year of our contract,” she said, shifting uneasily.
“You want to end the contract?” He was trying for his bland look, the empty face behind which he hid what he thought and felt, but she was not fooled. His nostrils twitched as he suppressed a flare, his lips thinned before he deliberately relaxed them, and he took a deep breath to relax his jaw. Whatever he felt about her news, he felt it deeply.
“You won’t want me when I’m huge, Aldridge. With Sarah, I was as big as an elephant, and so ugly.”
“Ugly? With your belly rounded by my child?” Suddenly, his face flared into an expression of yearning he quickly masked, but not before she’d seen it. “My child,” he said again, and leaned forward to touch her belly lightly, like fragile glass.
He met her eyes. “You will be more beautiful to me than ever, Becky, and I’ll have you know, there are ways we can enjoy one another, even if you are as huge as an elephant.” Then, as if her belly were a magnet drawing his attention, back they went to the rounded curve. “My child,” he repeated.
After a while, he spoke again. “My other children... I didn’t know Antonia even existed until she was six, and... I’m part of her life now, of course, but her parents don’t... The relationship will always be uneasy, I think. And the other two—I found husbands for their mothers within their own class, and I send them a present at Christmas. Well, you know that. You’re the one who told me to make it a present for the whole family, to save jealousy.”
“Aldridge.” She tried to invest the word with all the comfort she could. He’d spoken before of his children, but always with such cheerful insouciance, she’d had no idea he felt their lack.
“And now another one.” That was said in a tone of mournful acceptance. Then, briskly, “Well, we’ll have to make sure he has a good start in life, and his mother is free to give him all he needs. But Becky, will you let me be his godfather, at least?”
“Of course, Aldridge.” She laid her hand over his where it cupped her belly, then teased him, to try to lighten the moment. “Or hers.”
He pulled her to him, so she was nestled in his arms, her head under his chin. “What do you want, my love? A new identity with a trust fund to keep you in comfort? I know it isn’t to stay here with me; you told me last year that you’d not renew the contract at the end of this term.”
“Sarah will be eleven when this contract term ends,” she reminded him. She shouldn’t be apologetic, but he sounded so forlorn. “I can’t give her a normal life as your mistress, or this new baby, either.”
“I know. I know. I even agree with you, my love. I wish... I wish I were not the next Haverford. Then I could marry you, and we could go on being comfortable.”
“If I were your wife, Aldridge, I would object to your lovers. And then you would not be comfortable at all.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “True. But I do love you, Becky, dear.”
“You are fond of me, Aldridge, and I am fond of you. But we do not love one another. Which is a very good thing, no doubt.”
For a moment, he let his mood slip. Serious and intent, he said, “I will leave it as long as I can, but one day, I will choose a wife for her lineage and the advantage she offers the duchy. The poor lady. I will be a dreadful husband, I expect, though better than His Grace, I hope.”
“You do yourself an injustice, my dear,” Becky said. “You will be kind to your wife, I know, and will treat her with respect. And I hope and pray you find a woman you can love, and who will love you as you deserve. That is my dream for you, Aldridge—marriage to a woman who will absorb, and complete, and fulfil you.”
Aldridge’s short laugh rejected the notion, though his eyes were wistful.
“And what is your dream for yourself, Becky?” he asked.
“Oh, I shall be satisfied with a little cottage, somewhere in a country town, where I can be a widow, and no one will know my past.”
Aldridge pulled back to look into her eyes. “Satisfied, perhaps, but what is your dream? Come; pretend I am a magical creature with the power to grant wishes. What are your three wishes, Becky?”
She decided to play along. “Three wishes. Let me see. Marriage of the sort I wish for you. That is my first wish: to be married to a man I love and who loves me.”
“Marriage and love. What is your second wish?”
“This is silly, Aldridge. No one will marry a woman with my history.”
“Tell me anyway,” he coaxed. “Wish two.”
“A husband who will be a true father to my children, who will care for them as I do, and treat them as his own. It isn’t going to happen, Aldridge. I’ve been a whore since I was fifteen.”
“You are a unique and special woman, and any man would be lucky to win you as his wife. Wish number three.”
She flapped her hands in a gesture of dismissal. “Might as well wish for him to be a peer, then. A commoner is no more likely to marry me than a lord of the realm. Find me a peer to marry, oh, granter of wishes.”
He tucked her back under his chin again. “Marriage, love for you and your children, and social position. That’s what you’re really asking for, is it not?”
“It is just a dream, my dear. Best to focus on what we can achieve, do you not think? Will you help me find my little cottage, Aldridge?”
“I will help you find a place, my Becky. Somewhere you and Sarah and my child can be safe.” His hands were roaming again, exploring her curves. “I cannot believe I didn’t notice. You are fuller here and here, and more rounded down here. Lie back, Becky. I want to kiss my child.” He tipped her backwards, followed her down, and spent several minutes murmuring to her belly. Then kisses became licks and nips, and tended lower.
Becky shifted to accommodate him, content to let the conversation drop. Aldridge had given his word, and he never broke a promise.
Chapter Eleven
It was worse this time. Twice before, Hugh had run away to London to escape the anniversary of his wife’s suicide, and spent the time drinking and raking with Aldridge. This time, the sour taste of three weeks of excess lingered, even after five weeks under his own roof.
Physical exercise—productive, necessary work—helped. He’d thrown himself into the harvest. This was the last farm, and they’d scythed and cocked more than half the
tenant’s grain today.
Hugh stopped at the end of the row. How much progress had they made? The sun would be down soon; they had perhaps another hour of light.
“Reckon we’ll finish this field tonight, my lord,” said Beckham, whose barley crop they were getting in. Hugh nodded as he took a tankard of ale from the man’s wife. “I reckon we will, Beckham,” he agreed.
He downed half the tankard in a huge swallow, relishing the sensation of the liquid seeping into his parched flesh. They’d done well. They’d finish scything tomorrow, and then they’d join the teams who’d already begun collecting and stacking sheaves from previous days, dried enough for the next stage in the harvest.
The weather looked like it would hold dry for another week. They could count it a good year.
With another couple of swallows, he finished the tankard and returned it to Mrs Beckham with his thanks.
“Come on then, men,” he said, picking up his scythe again. “Let’s finish this field.”
On the first anniversary, he and Aldridge had met by chance at an inn a day outside Town, and Aldridge’s flirtation with a servant girl had led to an invitation for her to bring a friend and join them. Hugh had bedded a scant handful of women since the shrapnel burst that scarred him, and none but his reluctant wife in four years. He enjoyed himself thoroughly.
But on the ride to London, when Aldridge laughingly teased him about the girl’s admiration of his performance, he attributed her compliments to his lavish payment. “Look at me, Aldridge. Who would want this monster in her bed if she had a choice?” That was a direct quote from Polyphemia—one of the many things she’d screamed at him that last, awful day.
Aldridge laughed. “A few scars is nothing, Hugh. You’re just as pretty as you once were on the other side and, in any case, it is men that are shallow about good looks. Women’ll look past that, if you pleasure them well.” Then he proposed proving his case by introducing Hugh to some of the women he knew in London. “You haven’t lost the skill you had when we were lads, Hugh. That girl had the glow. You gave her a night she’ll never forget. Get a reputation for that in London, and your bed need never be empty.”