by Lisa Kleypas
Devlin grunted his assent, picking up a glass of whiskey and downing it in two gulps. Extracting a tiny scissor-case from his own pocket, Fretwell tried to snip the capped end off the cigar, but the tough wrapping of leaves resisted his efforts. Diligently he continued to saw away at the cigar until Devlin snorted and reached for it. “Give me the damned thing.”
Producing a wickedly sharp knife from his desk drawer, Devlin made a deep circular cut around the cap, removing the ragged edge left by the scissors. He handed Fretwell the cigar and a matchbox, and watched as he lit and drew on it until the tobacco produced an acrid, aromatic smoke that flowed smoothly.
Sitting in a nearby chair, Fretwell puffed in companionable silence while he contemplated what he could say to his friend. The truth was, Devlin looked like the very devil. The past few weeks of ruthless work and drinking and lack of sleep had finally taken their toll. Fretwell had never seen him in such a state before.
Devlin had never struck him as a particularly happy sort of man, seeming to view life as a battle to be won rather than something he should find a measure of enjoyment in, and given his past, no one could blame him. But Devlin had always seemed invincible. As long as his business concerns were succeeding, he was charmingly arrogant, nonchalant, reacting to good news and bad with sardonic humor and a steady head.
Now, however, it was clear that something was bothering Devlin, something that mattered to him very much. The mantle of invincibility had been stripped away, leaving behind a man who was so bedeviled that he could not seem to find refuge.
Fretwell had no difficulty in discerning when the trouble had begun—at the first meeting between Jack Devlin and Miss Amanda Briars. “Jack,” he said cautiously, “it is obvious that you have been somewhat preoccupied of late. I don’t suppose there is anything—or anyone—that you would care to discuss—”
“No.” Devlin dragged a hand through his black hair, disheveling the thick locks, tugging absently at the front forelock
“Well, there is something I would like to bring to your attention.” Fretwell puffed thoughtfully on his cigar before continuing. “It seems that two of our writers have begun…I’m not certain what to call it…an involvement of some kind.”
“Really.” Devlin arched a black brow.
“And since you always like to be informed of any significant personal developments concerning your authors, I think you should be made aware of the rumors. It seems that Miss Briars and Mr. Charles Hartley have been seen together quite often of late. Once at the theater, a few times driving in the park, and at various social events—”
“I know,” Devlin interrupted sourly.
“Forgive me, but I thought that at one time you and Miss Briars—”
“You’re turning into an interfering old biddy, Oscar. You need to find a woman for yourself and stop worrying about other people’s private affairs.”
“I have a woman,” Fretwell replied with extreme dignity. “And I don’t choose to interfere in your private life, or even comment about it, unless it begins to affect your work. Since I own a share of this business, albeit a small one, I have a right to be concerned. If you drive yourself into a decline, every employee at Devlin’s will suffer. Including myself.”
Jack scowled and sighed, crushing out the stub of his cigar on the crystal plate. “Dammit, Oscar,” he said wearily. Only his manager and longtime friend would dare to press him this way. “Since it’s clear that you won’t leave me the hell alone until I answer…yes, I’ll admit that at one time I had an interest in Miss Briars.”
“Quite a strong interest,” Fretwell murmured.
“Well, that’s all over now.”
“Is it?”
Devlin gave a low, humorless laugh. “Miss Briars has too much sense to desire any entanglement with me.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose and said flatly, “Hartley’s a good choice for her, don’t you think?”
Fretwell was compelled to answer honestly. “If I were Miss Briars, I would marry Hartley without hesitation. He’s one of the most decent fellows I’ve ever met.”
“It’s all settled, then,” Devlin said brusquely. “I wish the two of them well. It’s only a matter of time before they wed.”
“But…but what about you? Will you stand by and allow Miss Briars to go to another man?”
“Not only will I stand by, I’ll escort her to the chapel myself, if she requires it. Her marriage to Hartley will be best for all concerned.”
Fretwell shook his head, understanding the private fear that moved Devlin to cast away the woman who clearly meant so much to him. It was a strange, self-imposed isolation that all the survivors of Knatchford Heath seemed to share. None of them seemed able to forge lasting ties with anyone.
Of the few who had dared to marry, such as Guy Stubbins, Devlin’s bookkeeping manager, had these unions that were sorely troubled. Trust and fidelity were damnably elusive for those who had endured the hell of Knatchford Heath. Fretwell himself had scrupulously avoided marriage, managing to love and lose a very good woman rather than take the risk of attaching himself to her permanently.
Yet he hated to see Jack Devlin suffer the same fate, especially as the man’s feelings appeared to run far deeper than he had first suspected. After Amanda Briars married another man, it was likely that Devlin would never be the same.
“What will you do, Jack?” he wondered aloud.
Devlin pretended to misunderstand the question. “Tonight?…I’ll leave off work and go to Gemma Bradshaw’s place. Perhaps I’ll purchase some ready female companionship.”
“But you don’t sleep with whores,” Fretwell said, startled.
Devlin smiled darkly, gesturing to the plate of ashes. “I don’t smoke, either.”
“I’ve never had a picnic indoors before,” Amanda remarked with a laugh, viewing her surrounding with glowing eyes. Charles Hartley had invited her to his small estate, built on the outskirts of London, where his younger sister, Eugenie, was hosting a luncheon. Amanda liked her immediately upon meeting her. Eugenie’s dark eyes were filled with a lively youthfulness that belied her matronly status as a mother of seven, and she possessed the same aura of serenity that made Charles so appealing.
The Hartleys were a family of good blood, not aristocrats but respectable and well heeled. It made Amanda admire Charles all the more. He had the means to live an indolent life if he so desired, and yet he had chosen to occupy himself with writing for children.
“It’s not an authentic picnic,” Charles admitted. “However, it is the best we could do, considering the fact that it is too cold to enjoy oneself outdoors just yet.”
“I do wish your children were here,” Amanda said impulsively to Eugenie. “Mr. Hartley speaks of them so often that I feel as if I know them.”
“Heavens,” Eugenie exclaimed, laughing, “not for our first meeting. My children are a lot of perfect little hellions. They would frighten you away, and we would never see you again.”
“I doubt that very much,” Amanda replied, taking the seat that Charles held for her. The indoor picnic had been laid out in an octagonal-shaped sunroom featuring an atrium set in the center of the stone floor. Here a “white garden” planted with white roses, snowy lilies, and silver magnolias gave off a delicious scent that drifted across the table laden with linen, crystal, and silver. The white linen cloth had been scattered with pink rose petals that matched the flowered Sevres china.
Eugenie picked up a glass of sparkling champagne and regarded Charles with a smiling gaze. “Shall you make a toast, dear brother?”
He gazed at Amanda as he complied. “To friendship,” he said simply, but the warmth in his eyes seemed to convey a deeper feeling than mere friendship.
Amanda sipped the beverage, finding it to be refreshingly tart and cold. She felt festive and yet completely comfortable in Charles Hartley’s company. Lately they had spent a great deal of time together, riding in his carriage or attending parties and lectures. Charles was a complete gentleman, ma
king her wonder if there were ever any improper thoughts or ideas in his head. He seemed incapable of rudeness or vulgarity. All men are primitive louts, Jack had once told her…well, he had been wrong. Charles Hartley was living proof of that.
The reckless passion that had tormented Amanda faded like the glowing embers of a once-roaring fire. She still thought of Jack far more often than she would have wished, and during the rare occasions when they met, she experienced the same hot and cold chills, the same excruciating awareness, the same intense yearning for things she could not have. Fortunately, it didn’t happen often. And when it did, Jack was unfailingly polite, his blue eyes friendly but cool, and he spoke only of business matters that concerned them both.
Charles Hartley, on the other hand, made no secret of his feelings. It was easy to like this kind, uncomplicated widower, who clearly needed and wanted a wife. He was everything Amanda admired in a man; cerebral, moral, his character sensible and yet seasoned with dry wit.
How odd it seemed that after so many years, her life had finally come to this…being courted by a good man, knowing with near certainty that it would lead to marriage if she chose. There was something different about Charles Hartley from any other man she had ever known—it was astonishingly easy to trust him. She knew in her soul that he would always treat her respectfully. Moreover, they shared the same values, the same interests. In a short time, he had become a remarkably dear friend.
She wished that she could bring herself to feel more of a physical attraction to Charles. Whenever she tried to imagine being in bed with him, the thought was not in the least exciting. Perhaps that feeling would develop over time…or perhaps she would be able to find contentment in the kind of pleasant but passionless marriage that her sisters seemed to have.
This was the right path for her to take, Amanda reassured herself silently. Sophia had been correct—it was time for her to have her own family. If Charles Hartley eventually proposed to her, she would marry him. She would slow the pace of her career, perhaps even give it up entirely, and lose herself in the everyday concerns that ordinary women faced. It is always more difficult for the people who swim against the current, Sophia had counseled her, and the truth of those words had sunk in more deeply every day. How nice it would be, how pleasant, to surrender her fruitless desires, and finally be like everyone else.
As Amanda dressed for a carriage drive with Charles, she noticed that her best carriage gown, made of heavy apple-green corded silk, with a flattering V-shaped stomacher, was almost too snug to fasten.
“Sukey,” she said with a sigh of displeasure as the maid strained to close the buttons at her back, “perhaps you might pull my corset laces a bit more tightly. I suppose I’ll have to begin some kind of slimming regimen. Heaven knows what I’ve done to gain so much weight in the past few weeks.”
To her surprise, Sukey did not laugh or commiserate or dispense advice, only stood behind her without moving.
“Sukey?” Amanda questioned, turning around. She was perplexed by the odd expression on the maid’s face.
“P’raps I’d better not lace you tighter, Miss Amanda,” Sukey said carefully. “It might do ye harm if ye are…” Her voice faded off.
“If I am what?” Amanda was bewildered by the maid’s silence. “Sukey, tell me your thoughts at once. Why, you almost look as though you think I’m—”
Abruptly she broke off as she understood the woman’s unspoken question. She felt the blood ebbing from her face, and she put a hand to her midriff.
“Miss Amanda,” the maid asked cautiously, “how long has it been since yer monthly courses have come?”
“A long time,” Amanda said, her voice sounding distant and strangely detached. “Two months, at least. I’ve been too busy and distracted to give it a thought until now.”
Sukey nodded, seemingly robbed of the ability to speak.
Amanda turned and went to a nearby chair. She sat with the unfastened dress sagging in shimmering folds around her. An odd feeling had come over her, as if she had been suspended in midair, with no way to gain purchase on the ground far below. It was not a pleasurable sensation, this terrible lightness. She wished desperately for a way to anchor herself, to catch hold of something reassuringly solid.
“Miss Amanda,” Sukey said a long moment later, “Mr. Hartley will arrive soon.”
“When he does, send him away,” Amanda replied numbly. “Tell him…tell him that I am not feeling well today. And then send for a doctor.”
“Yes, Miss Amanda.”
She knew the doctor would only confirm what she suddenly felt quite certain of. The recent changes in her body, and her feminine instincts, pointed to the same conclusion. She was pregnant with Jack Devlin’s child…and she could not imagine a worse dilemma.
Unmarried women who found themselves pregnant were often described as being “in a predicament.” The shortcomings of that phrase nearly made Amanda laugh hysterically. Predicament? No, it was a disaster, one that would change her life in every way.
“I’ll stay with ye, Miss Amanda,” Sukey murmured. “No matter what.”
Even in the chaos of her thoughts, Amanda was moved by the woman’s instant loyalty. Blindly she caught at the maidservant’s rough, work-worn hand and clutched it. “Thank you, Sukey,” she said hoarsely. “I don’t know what I shall do if…if there is a baby…I would have to go somewhere. Abroad, I suppose. I would have to live away from England for quite a long while.”
“I wearied of England years ago,” Sukey said stoutly. “All this rain an’ gray gloom, an’ the cold that settles in yer bones…nay, it’s not fer a woman of my warm nature. Now, France or Italy…those are the places I allus dreamed of.”
A mirthless laugh stuck in Amanda’s throat, and she could only whisper in reply, “We’ll see, Sukey. We’ll see what is to be done.”
Amanda refused to see Charles Hartley, or anyone else, for a week after the doctor verified that she was pregnant. She sent Hartley a note explaining that she was suffering with a touch of la grippe, and required several days to rest and recover. He responded with a sympathetic message and a delivery of beautifully arranged hothouse flowers.
There was much to consider, and important decisions to make. Try as she might, Amanda could not blame Jack Devlin for her condition. She was a mature woman who had understood the risks and consequences of an affair. The responsibility rested squarely on her shoulders. Although Sukey had tentatively suggested that Amanda go to Jack with the news, the very idea had made her recoil in horror. Absolutely not! If there was one thing Amanda knew for certain, it was that Jack Devlin did not want to be a father or a husband. She would not burden him with this problem—she was capable of providing for herself and the baby.
There was only one course of action. She would pack up her household and go to France as soon as possible. Perhaps she would invent a fictional husband who had died, leaving her a widow…some kind of ruse that would allow her to take part in local French society. She would still be able to earn a handsome living by publishing from abroad. There was no reason for Jack ever to find out about a child whom he surely did not want and whose existence he would most likely resent. No one would know the truth except her sister Sophia, and, of course, Sukey.
Channeling all her energies into planning and list-making, Amanda made preparations for the drastic upheaval her life would soon undergo. Toward that end, she allowed Charles Hartley to call on her one morning so that she could tell him good-bye.
Charles arrived at her home with a bouquet of flowers. He was dressed in his elegant, solidly traditional brown coat and fawn trousers, with a dark silk cravat tied neatly beneath his beard. Amanda felt a sharp pang of regret that she would never be able to see him after this day. She would miss his kind, open face and the comfortable, uncomplicated companionship he offered. It was a pleasure to be with a man who did not excite her or challenge her, a man who led a life as calm and quiet as Jack Devlin’s was fast and turbulent.
“Lovel
y as ever, though a bit pale,” Charles pronounced, smiling at Amanda as he gave his overcoat and tall hat to Sukey. “I have worried about you, Miss Briars.”
“I am much better now, thank you,” Amanda replied, forcing an answering smile to her lips. She bade Sukey to take the flowers and put them in water, and invited Charles to sit beside her on the settee. For a few minutes they engaged in light conversation, talking about nothing in particular while Amanda’s mind busily winnowed out various ways to tell him that she was going to leave England for good. Finally she could think of no delicate way to put it, and she spoke with her natural brisk bluntness. “Charles, I am glad we have this opportunity to talk, as it will be our last. You see, I’ve recently decided that England is no longer the best place for me to live. I plan to establish a home elsewhere—in France, actually, where I believe the mild climate and the slower pace of life will suit me much better than here. I will miss you dearly, and I do hope we may correspond now and then.”
Charles’s face was wiped clean of expression, and he absorbed the news silently. “Why?” he murmured at last, and reached for one of her hands, holding it in both his large ones. “Are you ill, Amanda? Is that why you require a warmer climate? Or are there circumstances of a different nature that compel you to move? I do not wish to pry, but I have a good reason for asking, as I will explain shortly.”
“I am not ill,” Amanda said with a faint smile. “You are very kind, Charles, to show such concern for my welfare—”
“It is not kindness that inspires my questions,” he said quietly. For once, his usually untroubled brow was puckered, and his mouth had tightened until it was nearly concealed in the trim mass of his beard. “I do not wish you to go anywhere, Amanda. There is something I must tell you. I had not wanted to reveal it so soon, but it seems that circumstances are forcing me to be a bit precipitate. Amanda, you must know how I care—”