by Tessa Candle
But one did not do that in a church. More was the pity.
“You might want to be a little more discreet, Rutherford,” Frobisher muttered at his side.
“I have not slung her over my shoulder and abducted her,” he grumbled. “This is being discreet.”
His friend's sad chuckle only slightly alleviated the gloomy cast of his features, which Rutherford knew was entirely affected for public consumption. Frobisher was quite jolly among the men, but anywhere he was likely to meet with an unwed lass, or a mother with marriageable daughters, he wore a sour, sickly look and feigned ill humour.
“I should thank you, Bish, for watching over her while I was out of town.”
“How is the duke?”
“Better, thank God. He insisted on giving me a courtesy title, which I accepted, only to put him at ease.”
“You had best get used to being titled, though I can understand your reluctance. Being an heir was bad enough. When I became a marquess, the marriage vultures were inflamed into a frenzy. Prepare yourself. But the next time you go to Blackwood, I shall tag along, if I may. Fenimore Hall is just down the road, you know. We could do some hunting.”
Their whispering had to cease as the final benediction was under way. Rutherford stole another glance at Tilly. She smiled at him, and he felt light headed. He grasped his heart in a pantomime. She placed a trembling hand on her forehead in a theatrical gesture. God how he loved her.
When they were finally assembled at the reception in the Aldley estate manor, Rutherford procured two glasses of champagne and went to deliver one to Tilly. He was not interested in being discreet. They were both godparents, so performing the service of fetching her a drink should not be terribly scandalous. He knew not what Screwe had been saying around town, but surely the gossip-grinders had better grist for their mills.
She stood with Mrs. Carlton, chatting with some young woman, but the girl was soon drawn away. Rutherford seized his chance.
He leaned into Tilly’s ear and whispered to her, as he passed close with the proffered champagne. “I wish I could lick it off of your naked body, but I hope you will nonetheless...” Then he said, audibly, “...accept the service of this little refreshment, Miss Ravelsham.”
Her look was hungry, and her flashing eyes matched his. She took the glass. “I gladly accept, Mr. Rutherford, and thank you for this kind attention. Although, I am informed that I must now address you as my lord.”
“Nonsense. Bartholmer has made me the Earl of Drake, but I have not been introduced at court. And you and I are both of a higher order of existence now, anyway, being godparents. We must rise above such worldly distinctions. You must continue to address me as ever you did before.” He permitted himself a momentary waggle of the brow and murmured, “Preferably in the ecstatic, operatic tones that I have sometimes had the pleasure to hear.”
She drew in her breath. “You are very bad, my lord. Do the Aldleys know what a libertine they have made godparent to their child?”
He gave her a piercing look and a mocking smile. “If your own character is to set the standard, I believe I am quite safe in my office. You might look smart, however, for you may easily be ousted, if Red Martha should become available.”
He enjoyed watching her pert little mouth form itself up, ready to deliver a scathing reply, but he was denied the privilege, for the soul-withering voice of Lord Screwe came from behind him.
“Well, how delightful to see you two again. In a tête à tête, I see. And Mr. DeGroen nowhere to be seen.”
“Are you to be received here, Screwe?” Rutherford gave a look of distaste. “I shall have to have a word with Aldley about that.”
“It is an open house to all members of noble families. I suppose that would include you, Rutherford.”
Rutherford forbore to inform him of the courtesy title. It was unnecessary, as the rake-hell knew very well that Rutherford was the nephew of a duke.
“I believe it is customary to include the godparents on such occasions,” Rutherford drawled without rancour. He did not like the man, but could be quite complacent, so long as Screwe constrained his lamentable manners to hurling slights at Rutherford. In fact he should prefer to distract the nasty little imp from having anything at all to say to Tilly.
Screwe, however, seemed bent on menacing Tilly and turned to her immediately. “But true, I am quite happy to find you chatting with this young cavalier in such an open way, Miss Ravelsham. If my property is not returned, it will lend credibility to all I shall have to say.”
Tilly looked confused. “I do not know what you mean, my lord.”
Rutherford remarked that her expression was of a sort that he had seen before, when she was dissembling. She seemed determined to assume a very uninteresting, dull persona when Screwe was around. Tilly was working quite hard to hide her true self from him. What was there between them?
“Oh, I think you do, Miss Ravelsham. Certainly your brother does—”
“No, I do not. And if you have some business with my brother, I hope you will consult him, and leave me out of such manly affairs. I have neither the nerves nor the inclination to contemplate matters outside of my sphere. I hope you will both excuse me.”
As she left to go to Lydia's side, Screwe made to follow her, but Rutherford detained him, saying, “So, Screwe. What really brings you to this little party? You do not strike me as a man who cannot bear to miss a respectable gathering, and I did not see you at the church.”
Screwe's chance to follow and further harass Tilly passed as she rapidly positioned herself with the countess Aldley. His face soured. “I do not attend anything so tedious as a christening, it is true. But I make an appearance at Christmas masses just like all the poor married souls of the ton. These womanish things seem always to be contrived to suck the last bit of joy out of a man's life.”
Rutherford found them a tad boring himself, but that would not stop him from making some sport at Screwe's expense. “Yes, it must be rather difficult to sit through such obligatory sermons.” He paused for effect, not betraying any inkling of a smile. “Particularly when one keeps bursting into flames at every mention of Christ.”
Screwe mumbled something ill-humoured and walked away.
Rutherford looked at his watch. It was just as well that his sport had been ended thus, for he had to be in position on time. Aldley's plan was a cracking one, but it required properly concealed witnesses to be in place well in advance. It was good that the Aldleys had such a fine library, for he should need something to read.
Chapter 41
Tilly tucked herself behind the long velvet drape of the private parlour and slouched into the window bench. She retrieved a small novel she had borrowed from among Lydia's favourites, and began to while away the time reading the Accursed Abbey, with little moments of distraction when she contemplated where in the room Rutherford might be concealed.
It would be much more fun if they could be in hiding together, but knowing them, it would end scandalously. And anyway, the entire scheme relied upon the good character of the witnesses. If it were found out that they were tucked away in a closet together, all opinion would be against them, whether they had spent their time innocently or not. Tilly laughed quietly at this hypothetical improbability.
It was an hour later that Lydia entered the room and gave the little cough that was the signal that she was there, and that they should be at the ready. Tilly heard the sound of the countess seating herself comfortably on the chaise longue and arranging her skirts. There was only a brief interval before she heard another person, with a slight limp, enter the room.
“Mr. Delacroix.” Lydia's voice held a very realistic strain of nervousness and strong distaste. “You are not welcome here. Leave this instant!”
“Not yet, countess. We have some unfinished business regarding that little sprig you just tended with the holy watering can. I am sure you would not like me to reveal her paternity.”
“I should not like an unworthy such as
you to speak of her at all. But her father is standing right behind you.”
Apparently Aldley had entered the room quietly. Things were going well.
“Leave now, Delacroix, or I will remove you. I believe I made myself clear the last time you sneaked into my home to threaten my family that you were not to be received again.”
“Your family!” scoffed Delacroix. “I am not sure who your family is. But that child you are lending your name to is mine. And I will tell anyone who will listen about the tryst I had with Lady Aldley.”
“You have taken leave of your senses at last, Delacroix. There was never any tryst between us, despite your persecution of me.”
“Do you think that will matter? Your child will be shunned. And it will not help matters, Aldley, that your own father was probably this Sir Gerard Beauchamps fellow that your mother has taken up with, again.”
“Get out!” Aldley did not need to act his role.
Tilly could tell that the anger came very naturally. She could not even laugh disgust, as she might have once done, at the unequalled audacity of this nasty, ravening little cur of a man.
“Not so hasty!” replied Delacroix. “You may easily spare your child the grief of growing up under such a taint, not to mention sparing your wife's good name. All you need do is pay me the five hundred pounds, and I shall cause you no trouble.”
“You will not get a farthing from me. I do not purchase the forbearance of lying bounders.”
“Oh, get off your high horse, Aldley. No one cares for your moral pretences here. Is not your tender olive branch worth five hundred pounds? Such a sum is nothing to you. Do you hold her happiness so cheap as that?”
At this point the sounds in the room made it clear that Aldley was making for Delacroix, and that the little worm was shuffling away to evade him. Then the sound of a gun shot gave Tilly such a start that she fell off her window bench and became entangled in the drapes.
Chapter 42
Rutherford's hand had already been on the closet door when he heard the sounds that heralded a possible struggle between Aldley and Delacroix. The filthy little beast had already said enough to incriminate himself, anyway. There was no point in continuing until the confrontation turned violent. But he stepped into the room just in time to see Delacroix pull out a pistol and aim it, not at Aldley, but at Lydia.
Rutherford was behind Delacroix and lunged to grapple him. The shot that rang out sickened him. Had the festering little turd killed her? The question gave him pause to realize what his hands were doing. He looked down to discover that he was beating the face of Delacroix. The man's nose was gushing blood. Rutherford knew that he had to stop, but it felt incredibly good. He took a breath and held back his bloody raised fist.
Then he looked up to see if Lydia had been hurt. She was standing. Thank God. Aldley and Tilly had rushed to her side. Then Tilly looked up at him, and her face was lit up with admiration. Pure, whole-hearted, adoration of his valour shone from every corner of her visage. Her eyes said first, “You, sir, are my hero,” and then, “If we were alone right now I would have you right there on the floor.”
Warmth spread over his whole person. Tilly was his, and he knew it. She would not marry another, not now, not when she looked at him thus. He did not notice the entry of the men at arms and the magistrate. He almost did not feel the knife slicing into his left calf.
Chapter 43
The magistrate's chambers were comfortable enough, but Tilly was glad to quit them after she had given her statement. It seemed Delacroix would finally be brought to some sort of justice. She supposed stabbing Rutherford, again, would probably go unremedied, as it was a superfluous consideration in the face of an attempt on the life of a countess. At least Rutherford's injury was not life-threatening this time.
But Delacroix might hang, for blackmail and slander were one thing, but attempted murder was quite another.
Tilly would, under normal circumstances, not be eager to see capital punishment employed, from her general opposition to its use, and from numerous examples of its misapplication. But in this case, she was unwilling to devote pangs of remorse to an object who, if perhaps not entirely deserving of the noose, was certainly much more deserving than most of its victims.
In fact, she was still shocked to recall her own savage stirrings at the sight of Rutherford pounding the bastard's face bloody. She had thought, at that moment, that if he had asked her to marry him, she would have forgotten all she owed to others, all her obligations, and accepted his offer.
She shook her head. Of course it was pure selfishness. And yet, a tiny little spark of hope persisted inside of her. Perhaps she was not so irredeemable. Perhaps she could make herself someone not wholly undeserving of his love.
She sighed and dismissed such thoughts as she exited into the fresh air and was handed into her carriage. To believe she could become good enough for Rutherford was to conveniently forget the very real obstacle of her obligation to marry Mr. DeGroen.
As the carriage pulled away, she spied, through the window, a sight that made her gasp. She shuddered as she watched Lord Screwe and a man she knew to be a prominent barrister ascend the steps to call at the magistrate's.
Chapter 44
Rutherford was fidgety. Once again he had been wounded defending Lydia, and once again he was being cajoled into lying down and receiving treatment. What he wanted to do, should be doing, was chasing after Tilly, making her admit what he had seen shining in her eyes, and then running away with her before she could change her mind.
“That should do it.” The doctor stood up. “It is all cleaned and dressed.”
“Is there any serious danger?” asked Lydia, who stood with Aldley, watching nervously.
“I think not,” replied the doctor. “The cut is not so deep. It will not slow him down much. I recommend no strenuous movement for the first day, and then after that, a little light exercise—but certainly no more foil play, fisticuffs or gallantry until it is healed.”
“I hope I shall not be tempted, now that my enemy is behind bars.” Rutherford shifted his bandaged leg to a more comfortable position and looked at Aldley. “Tell me, how is it that the man who is always menacing your wife has become my nemesis? And how comes it that I am always the one to be stabbed while saving her?”
Aldley only laughed and said, “Thank you, again, my friend.”
“Yes, yes.” Rutherford waved away this gratitude impatiently. “I am not clamouring after your thanks. But it seems to me that you are somewhat remiss in the valiant duties you owe to your lady. I rather wonder why she married such a stupid fellow.”
But Aldley did not give Rutherford the satisfaction of rising to his comment. He only pulled his wife closer to him under his arm and said, “Yes, I wonder that myself.”
“Cupid is a blind archer.” Lydia's pertness was softened by a look of deep affection for her husband. “There is no accounting for the vagaries of love.”
Rutherford coughed to hide his emotion. His heart cried out for wanting what they both had. Where was Tilly?
“I shall give you some laudanum for the—”
“No!” Rutherford spoke too abruptly, and was embarrassed to see Lydia and Aldley shoot him a glance. “I mean, the pain is not so bad. And I need to go attend to something, so I cannot have a head full of gauze and eiderdown.”
“I recommend rest, my lord.” The doctor looked hesitant to oppose his will.
Rutherford liked to have his way very well, but he was not sure he could get used to being my-lorded all the time. “I understand, however, I must speak with Miss Ravelsham.”
Lydia and Aldley exchanged a look. Aldley spoke. “You should not speak with her until after you both have given your statement to the magistrate, upon his instructions. Miss Ravelsham is giving hers now. The magistrate witnessed your injury, and made a point of saying he would come to you, here, to take your deposition this evening. For Lydia and I both hope you will stay here, at least for the first day.”
Rutherford sighed. “Very well, if it is necessary in order to keep that smoky little coward in gaol, I shall stay. But can you not invite Tilly to come for a late dinner instead of returning to London? I will follow her to town if she will not come, for I must see her.”
“I suppose it might be arranged, if she does not have plans.” Lydia smirked. “Perhaps she will stay by your bedside and read to you from her little book of poetry.”
Chapter 45
Tilly stepped out of her lemon-sacheted carriage with the beleaguered Mrs. Carlton into the quiet Kensington neighbourhood, as the first red of sunset lit the neat bricks of her fiancé’s home.
She hated having to refuse the invitation to Lydia's dinner, for she so longed to see Rutherford, her dear, brave Rutherford. But the message from DeGroen had been quite urgent, and he wasn't a man prone to flights of panic or nervous delusion.
Mr. DeGroen met them in the drawing room.
“How is Grandfather Fowler?” asked Tilly.
“He seems well enough, but he is not happy. It seems that Lord Screwe visited him yesterday in my absence.”
“Screwe.” Tilly was tired of even hearing the beast’s name.
“His lordship had a few choice things to say about your relationship with Mr. Rutherford.”
Tilly huffed. “Yes. I can only imagine. He has had, in fact, no scruple but to call at Rutherford’s uncle’s estate only to continue his persecution there—and in full hearing of his grace.”
“His grace? Rutherford's uncle is a duke?”