by Georgie Lee
‘Then show me your ledgers. Bring them here and outline each expense and how it was used to further your business. I’ll have Mr Reed go through it and we’ll see how unfounded my accusations are.’
Rupert’s jaw ground as he worked to concoct another lie, another excuse to explain his dishonesty.
‘Don’t bother telling me anything else,’ Warren warned.
‘What am I going to do without your support?’
‘You have your small inheritance, which is more than I had when I first started out. Use it to save yourself or did you squander it too?’
The angry pursing of Rupert’s lips told him he had. ‘You have tons of money, but you deny me even the smallest help.’
‘You had the chance to take my assistance, and that of everyone who believed in your venture, and do something with it. Instead you wasted it. From here on out, whether you succeed or fail is according to your own effort and will, which, from what I’ve seen, is sorely lacking.’
Rupert swallowed hard, staring at the floor as if Lancelot might rise up to help him win the argument. ‘You wouldn’t have behaved like this if Leticia were still alive.’
For the first time, Rupert’s reminder didn’t fill Warren with guilt. ‘You’re right, but she isn’t.’
‘And whose fault is that?’ Rupert hissed.
Warren slammed his fist on the desk, making the ink jars rattle in their holders. ‘Get out and don’t ever step foot in this house again. You don’t deserve my help.’
Rupert flung one last look of hate at Warren before turning on his heel and storming out of the room. It was then Warren noticed his mother hovering in the doorway.
Warren righted the ink jar, trying to calm the tremors of rage filling him. Even when Rupert’s whole world was crumbling in on him, he still tried to blame Warren for both his failures and Leticia’s death. For too long he’d allowed him to use her memory against him, to ignore the worm of a man in front of him as though she were still alive. He wouldn’t allow it any longer. ‘How much did you hear?’
‘Enough to confirm something I’ve been considering for a long time.’
Warren rubbed the side of his stinging hand. ‘I held on to him because he reminded me of Leticia.’
‘We both did.’ She came up to Warren and laid a comforting hand on his arm. ‘I know I don’t talk about her much and have often discouraged you from speaking of her as well. I worried about you when you went into the Navy, frightened each time the post came I’d learn you’d been killed. I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t think she’d be the one to die young.’
Warren stared down at his mother, stunned. It was the first time she hadn’t shied away from discussing Leticia. His openness had increased hers and it never would have happened if he hadn’t told Marianne. Once again, when he’d wanted to help her, she’d been the one who’d helped him. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘We’re too much alike, not admitting to others how we really feel. Your father used to complain about it.’ She offered him a light smile which quickly faded. ‘You blame yourself for what happened, but I don’t blame you. You did everything you could.’
Warren sighed, weary of it all. ‘It wasn’t enough.’
‘Sometimes nothing is. I saw so much of it in all the parishes I was in with your father.’ His mother touched the book on castles. ‘I don’t say this lightly because like you, I miss her every day, but it’s time for us to recall other, better memories.’
He didn’t know how to move past his sister’s death any more than he knew how to rid himself of the horrors of the Navy. Leaving Leticia to the past felt too much like a betrayal of her memory and everything she’d ever done for him, yet clinging to his grief had not brought her back. He looked at the ink jar, thinking of Marianne as she’d stood here listening to him. In her quiet voice, she’d told him Leticia’s death wasn’t his fault and for the first time, he’d believed it. Maybe she was the one who could lead him out of this grief stealing his voice and threatening to ruin his entire life.
Lancelot’s collar jingled as he scratched himself with his back paw.
‘What’ll you do about Miss Domville? She was very hesitant when I asked if she’d return tomorrow,’ his mother asked.
Warren pinched the bridge of his nose, the promise of Marianne decreasing as the troubles of the last half-hour increased. There was nothing stopping Rupert from telling anyone his suspicions about Warren and Marianne, and Warren wouldn’t put it past the weasel to say something simply out of spite. Despite the risk, Warren wouldn’t pay Rupert to keep silent or allow his brother-in-law to influence him ever again. He’d find another way to protect Marianne and uphold his promise to not allow their arrangement to result in a scandal. If it did, she would need him and he would stand by her, not because he was the cause of it but because he cared for her. She had fast become more than his muse.
* * *
Marianne crept closer to the downstairs sitting room, not wanting to announce her presence to Lady Ellington and Lord Falconbridge. They must not have heard the carriage return from Priorton Abbey, but she’d seen his horse in the stable and knew he was here. Marianne leaned against the wall beside the open door to listen, the composition book clutched in her hand. She hadn’t done this since she’d lived with Madame de Badeau. Back then, she used to listen at keyholes all the time. She couldn’t help it this afternoon.
‘I have my reservations about this arrangement.’ Lord Falconbridge’s deep voice carried out from the room. ‘You remember how it was with you and Uncle Edgar and how he almost dragged you down with his appalling behaviour.’
‘Edgar also taught me to live my life as I please and not to allow others’ opinions to influence me. I want Marianne to learn the same lesson,’ Lady Ellington insisted.
‘And you think Sir Warren is the one to teach it to her?’
‘Yes. He’s a single gentleman of good reputation and means with an interest in her. Granted, he’s come up with a very complicated way of going about things, but there’s a man for you,’ came Lady Ellington’s cheerful if not practical response. ‘Look at how difficult you made things with Cecelia.’
The rumble of Lord Falconbridge’s laugh filled the hallway before he sobered. ‘But this arrangement could do her more harm than good. Miss Domville doesn’t have our stamina for weathering storms.’
‘If you hadn’t created so many tempests in your youth, neither would you.’ The clink of the crystal stopper in Lady Ellington’s plum wine decanter drifted out of the room.
‘What if you’re wrong about him and he doesn’t pursue her?’ Lord Falconbridge pressed.
Marianne clutched the composition book against her chest, the worry she’d carried home from Priorton intensifying. Lord Falconbridge’s fears weren’t unfounded. Warren had said he wasn’t interested in marriage and she’d still flung herself at him moments before his snake of a brother-in-law had walked in. If he hadn’t called out and alerted them, who knew what he might have seen.
‘I’m not wrong,’ Lady Ellington insisted.
‘For Miss Domville’s sake, and her future here in the country, I hope so.’
Panic made it impossible for Marianne to stand here without revealing herself. She hurried away, tiptoeing up the main staircase, past Lady Ellington’s impressive collection of Italian landscapes covering the stairway wall.
Once inside her room, she closed and locked the door, then slumped into the chair in front of the writing table. Yet another letter from Theresa waited for her on the blotter. She covered it with her composition book, not possessing the fortitude to open the missive and read about her friend’s happiness, not when her present situation was so precarious. Beneath them lay the journal with Lady Matilda’s Trials, another glaring example of the mistakes she was making with Warren.
She rose to pace across the room. Her la
ck of discretion and judgement with him was putting her place with the Falconbridges in jeopardy and there was more than her reputation at stake. For all Lord Falconbridge’s and Lady Ellington’s support, it had only ever been against invented and imagined scandals. Whether they’d continue to stand with her in the face of a real one of her own making, she wasn’t sure. She’d been acquainted with Lord Falconbridge through her mother in the days before he’d married Cecilia. Back then, he’d been hailed as one of the most formidable rakes in London. He’d abandoned his old life and reputation when he’d married the Marchioness. He wouldn’t appreciate it being revived because of Marianne’s wanton behaviour, especially with his children to consider. If Marianne crossed the line of decency, he might insist the family abandon her, just like Mr Smith had.
I should have been more careful with Warren. I never should have kissed him.
She’d resisted the lechers without money and the lechers with it to rise above the filth Madame de Badeau had tried to mire her in. The kiss proved she couldn’t resist Warren or his continued eroding of the distance she needed to maintain between them. Except she didn’t want to stay away.
She slipped Lady Matilda’s Trials out from beneath the letter and composition book and flipped through the pages, admiring Warren’s fine handwriting filling every line. Marianne traced the large M in Lady Matilda’s name, the memory of Warren’s light hair curling over his proud forehead, his striking green eyes and the firmness of his body against hers stirring something inside. Their kiss today hadn’t been about lust or loss of control, but compassion. She’d offered him a glimpse of her soul and instead of turning away he’d embraced her. If she pushed him out of her life, she might never discover where her heart and his might lead them, assuming he did want to pursue her. Lord Falconbridge was right. Warren might not crave anything more from her than a dalliance. She didn’t want to be punished for wanting love or affection, but she feared losing Lady Ellington over something as thin as possibility. She hoped Warren didn’t make her regret being so free with him today.
She flicked the book shut. What had hope ever garnered her except more heartache? At the Protestant School, she’d hoped every Christmas for a real family, and then her real mother had snatched her away. In London, she’d hoped to return to the Smiths, but they hadn’t wanted her. She pulled opened the desk drawer and shoved the journal inside then slapped it shut. Her agreement with Warren was over. She wouldn’t return to Priorton Abbey or perform her compositions for anyone outside this house. She wouldn’t risk losing the safety of Lady Ellington’s care for the uncertainty of Warren’s promises. No matter what came of today, her behaviour from this moment forward must be beyond reproach. It was the safest course, and the most disheartening.
* * *
‘Lord Cartwright, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice about the business.’ Rupert all but grovelled beside the Baron, who accepted a loaded gun from his footman.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ the haughty man mumbled as he raised his gun and let off a shot, bringing down a pheasant. His dog took off in search of the carcase. ‘I understand from my man in London Sir Warren is backing this venture of yours?’
‘He believes in it so much, he’s—’
‘Wait a moment.’ Lord Cartwright raised his gun and let off an ear-piercing shot at another pheasant flying up out of the grass. He missed. ‘Damn it, Alton, something is wrong with this gun.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The footman exchanged the empty gun for another and laid the offending piece aside.
‘What were you saying about Sir Warren?’ Lord Cartwright lowered his barrel to the ground, keeping an eye on the grey sky as he listened to Rupert.
‘Sir Warren has placed Priorton Abbey up for collateral against any debts the company incurs. Even if things go wrong, you can’t lose your investment.’ Warren might not know it, but he’d help Rupert one way or another. ‘If a man like him has faith in me, surely you can. He also has the backing of the Marquess of Falconbridge through his connection with Miss Domville.’
‘What’s he doing associating with her?’ Lord Cartwright raised his gun and fired. This time he hit his mark and another dog went running into the field.
‘Sir Warren and Miss Domville are quite intimately acquainted.’ Rupert took Lord Cartwright’s empty gun and handed it to the footman before taking the loaded one and offering it to the Baron. How he hated these grand men and all their privileges. Warren thought he was one of them and better than Rupert. Rupert would show him and make him pay for insisting he beg before him like one of the serfs in his novels.
‘Really?’ Lord Cartwright appeared more interested in the gossip than all Rupert’s talk of investments and collateral.
‘I expect the Marquess to invest heavily in the business because of it. You could make a great deal of money, enough to finance your daughter’s second Season.’ Rupert had heard the rumours of Lord Cartwright’s mounting gambling debts and his displeasure at his daughter’s failure to make a lucrative match last Season.
Lord Cartwright rubbed his thumb over the shiny brass work on his gun, allowing a few pheasants scared up by the beaters to fly away as he considered Rupert’s suggestion. ‘You’re sure it’s secure?’
Rupert tried not to scream in frustration. What did this man care if it was secure or not? With his lands and money he could stand to part with a few pounds. Even if he couldn’t, with his heritage he’d be shielded from his debts in a way Rupert hadn’t been when his last venture had collapsed. Even then Warren had lectured him like a child about the need for responsibility. Rupert would teach him a lesson about where his responsibilities really lay. ‘Sir Warren’s name and fame is a guarantee against loss.’
‘All right,’ Lord Cartwright said at last, handing the gun to the footman. ‘I’ll write to my man to deposit double the amount we discussed in your account.’
‘You’re too gracious, my lord.’ Rupert kept the smile on his face, despite his disgust. This man had nothing but assets and lands and Rupert was forced to cajole and wheedle to get a few pounds out of him. The man should give it willingly and more, he owed it to people like Rupert, just like Warren did. Rupert would see to it they both felt the sting of being selfish, especially Warren who’d regret treating Rupert with so much disdain.
Chapter Eight
Marianne sat at the pianoforte at Welton Place, trying to reclaim the flow of the music, to allow it to carry her away like it usually did, but she couldn’t. It had been a full day since Warren’s brother-in-law had stumbled in on her and Warren at the Érard. Every time she passed a clutch of whispering maids, she wondered if they were talking about her. She was sure any moment now the rumours about her and Warren would begin, followed by Lord Falconbridge demanding an explanation.
She glanced at the garden where Walker was raking leaves, considering a walk, anything to settle the nervousness making her tap her foot against the floor. Potential gossip wasn’t the only thing making her want to stride out of the French doors. She’d sent a note to Warren first thing this morning to tell him she wouldn’t come today. She hadn’t gone as far as to end their arrangement, nor had she offered a reason for her absence. After yesterday, she hardly thought one was necessary.
She’d heard nothing from Warren in response. He hadn’t sent her a note, come to call or, at the very least, sent his mother for tea. Maybe he’d at last decided she was more of a detriment to him than an asset and it was best to distance himself from her. After all, he had a reputation to protect too. Her chest constricted at the thought, making her fingers clumsy on the keys when she attempted to play again. He was going to turn his back on her like everyone else. She’d been a fool to grow close to him, to reveal so much and to believe it would make a difference.
‘Are you still here, my dear?’ Lady Ellington strolled through the room on her way out to the garden to oversee the pruning of her
roses. ‘Isn’t Sir Warren expecting you?’
‘I don’t feel like going to Priorton today.’
‘Did something happen when you were last there?’ Lady Ellington perched her elbow on the edge of the pianoforte.
‘No.’ She couldn’t tell Lady Ellington about the kiss, not because the woman would dance with glee, but because she feared a completely different reaction.
‘Marianne?’ Lady Ellington pressed, increasing Marianne’s guilt over her lack of faith in her friend. Lady Ellington had always believed in her, she shouldn’t doubt her faith now.
Marianne stopped playing and picked at a small imperfection in one of the white keys ‘Yes, something did happen.’
Lady Ellington stood over Marianne and listened as she told her about the brother-in-law and his coming in on them alone together and insulting her. Marianne omitted the kiss, but given the scrutinising tilt of Lady Ellington’s head, it was clear she suspected something more than the two of them performing a duet. If she minded or was disappointed in Marianne for having been so weak with Warren, it was difficult to discern.
‘He stood up for you against a man related to him by marriage. It says a great deal about Sir Warren’s regard for you,’ Lady Ellington observed.
Marianne had a better inkling of his regard for her than Lady Ellington realised, but she didn’t dare say so. ‘He was being polite and if Mr Hirst is still there, I don’t want to place Wa— I mean Sir Warren in another difficult situation.’
Lady Ellington worked to hide her smile at Marianne’s near slip. ‘Sir Warren is a grown man and more than capable of deciding which situations he wants to be in and which he does not.’
‘If he wanted me to come back, I’m sure he would have said something by now, but he hasn’t.’ Nor had she ventured from Welton Place. She wouldn’t run after Warren, but deport herself with dignity.
Darby, Lady Ellington’s stone-faced butler, appeared in the doorway. ‘Sir Warren to see Miss Domville.’