by Anna Willman
“But why did you not tell me?” Louisa wailed. “I might have stopped them! Oh, Ned, did you not think I might like to see my own son married?”
“You were so weak, just getting over that woman’s evil potions,” he said. “I could not be certain that Edmund would be successful and I did not wish you to fret. And yet, we needed to hasten the marriage, for it seems that Mrs. Westlake had gotten a whiff of some old scandal about us and was on the verge of calling the whole thing off. We can still have a splendid reception for the bride when we return to London. You shall enjoy your wedding ball, I promise you.”
“You don’t understand. This is a disaster! What do I care about receptions or balls?” Louisa said, her eyes flashing. “Oh, Ned! You have protected me one time too many, and this time it may prove a great cost to our son!”
Her face paled suddenly and she moved across to the sofa and sat down, looking up at him with tears in her eyes.
“I am guilty, too,” she said slowly. “I should have told you, though we did not know if there was anything to it, and even now cannot be certain.”
He came and sat beside her, taking her hand in his. “Perhaps you had better tell me what it is you fear. What have you and Lady Guinevere been up to?”
When she had finished telling him all that they feared and all they had discovered, he sat quietly for some moments. Then he said, “So you and Lady Guinevere – and Charles Stanton, too – all have concerned yourselves with discovering the truth, and no one thought it important to tell me that my son was engaged to a woman who might well be his own sister? Am I not Edmund’s father?”
Louisa stared at him in distress. “Of course you are his father – you have always been the best of fathers! And I did intend to tell you as soon as we knew, but…oh, Ned, I didn’t wish to worry you if there was nothing to it.”
“As I did not wish to worry you.” He got up and took a turn about the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Then he stopped and looked down at her. “It’s clear, between the two of us, we have made a mull of it. And now what?”
“There is nothing we can do for Edmund,” Louisa said. “Two days gone! The marriage is fixed. We must say nothing, forget our fears, and hope it is not true.”
Ned’s face was thoughtful. “I agree, but I don’t like it that Lady Guinevere and Stanton both know. And Lancelot! That we should have to place our trust in such a scoundrel!”
Louisa stood up and took both his hands in hers. “Don’t worry about Lancelot, Ned. We’re going to marry him off, and then you’ll see – he’ll settle down and be our friend again.”
Ned’s eyes opened wide. “Who’s going to marry him?”
“I don’t know yet. Guinevere has some scheme afoot, but she won’t tell us until it is sure.” Then Louisa told him about the ladies of the ton and the meetings at Marianne Digby’s home. He could not help but laugh to think of a delegation of ladies filing into Lancelot’s parlor with matrimony on their minds, but Louisa perceived that his laughter was not unmixed with trepidation, so she ended her recitation by saying, “And I took care to say nothing about my own history with Lancelot, for I did not forget my promise to you to be discreet.”
Ned shook his head, “Merely being there was indiscreet, my dear, for surely the ladies will infer that he was your lover.”
“Oh, no, for there were several ladies there who had never fallen victim to his charms, but were there to accompany a friend or because they wanted to help prevent disaster.”
“So they said,” Ned told her.
“You do not believe them?” Louisa thought a minute and then added, “Perhaps you are right, but in any case, it’s done. And no one can be sure about those of us who did not speak out, so at least for now they will be more interested in those who did. Besides, everyone knows I am happy in my marriage and that you and Lancelot and Charles are all great friends. They are likely to think I am there, like Guinevere, because I am troubled by the fuss my old friend is causing.”
He still looked a little dubious, so she added, “All the ladies have pledged the strictest secrecy, and do you know, my dear, as odd as it may seem, I think they will remain true. Indeed, I expect very few will be willing to admit to their closest confidants that they were even there. ”
Ned smiled and shook his head. “And yet you have told me.”
“Because I am now resolved never again to keep anything from you. Well, just look at what has happened because we did not confide in one another. And I want you to promise, as well, Ned. I do not care for that sort of protection, and I am very much afraid that if we are not open with one another, our continental adventures will lead to disaster.”
Ned smiled. “I am thinking we had best leave for France as soon as possible. If you are not here, people will focus their curiosity upon the other ladies instead of on you. Indeed, the more I think about it, the less appealing London seems to me.”
“But first you must promise.” Louisa said. “I think we must pledge to meet after breakfast each morning and tell each other everything that has passed since the day before.”
“I promise,” Ned said. “And we will be on our way to Calais before the month is out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: In Which Lord Carew Loses Hope
Lancelot shuffled through his stack of letters and knew he was destined for a life of poverty. It was all Guinevere’s fault.
It was not that he was too proud to be poor, no matter what she thought of him, but the truth was that he simply didn’t know how. He had never in his life practiced economy, never settled for less than the best. Guinevere might consider him spoiled, and he supposed she was right. He was spoiled. His life was spoiled long ago.
He had just wasted three days in London, calling on people who didn’t wish to see him and who sent word down that they were not “at home”. He’d taken their snubs quietly, left his card and departed, telling himself that perhaps this daughter or son was not after all the right one to approach.
And that was the trouble. He had begun to doubt that there was a “right” one. He had a deep feeling of dread that he would make another mistake, find another Thomas Digby, ruin another life. Despite his bravado, the truth was that Digby’s disastrous response had frightened him badly. And Guinevere’s defection had shattered his confidence in what he had originally conceived of as a grand and hilarious jest on the stuffy ton, and then persuaded himself to pursue as a solution to his financial difficulties. Why should his bastard children not share their wealth with him, the true author of all their good fortune?
He had never intended to cause any harm.
And it was also true that as he read through the letters in front of him, he could not help but be reminded of the ladies he had courted over the years. This one had deep blue eyes that made him think of the autumn sky just before night fell. That one had been shy at first and then fiercely passionate. Another had read him poetry in the middle of the night – not romantic verses, but profound philosophical poems about life and death and the beauty of everyday objects. It was not true, what he had told Guinevere, that he had forgotten some of them. As he read through their letters, each woman came shining and clear into his mind’s eye – a delicious memory of times long past.
He had held them in great esteem – perhaps even loved them in his way. And they had loved him, if only for a time.
Lancelot had few illusions about himself – his successes as a rake were not founded on any remarkable prowess as a lover. He had succeeded because he was quite simply fascinated by the female sex. He admired them all – the beauties and the plain ones, the serious minded blue-stockings and the frivolous flirts, the wise-hearted and the foolish little gooses. He was charmed by their laughter, moved by their tears, interested in their dreams, touched by their disappointments. He won them over because he paid attention to them. He watched them and listened to them as no one had ever listened to them before.
And now as he read through their letters, he heard their fears. He had thought
that he could approach the children and spare the mothers. But Guinevere had made him see that it was not that simple. He thought of Marianne Digby and wanted to rage with frustration. How charming she had been, how angry and disappointed and frightened she had been as a reluctant young bride, and so tall and brave. To think she must suffer again through his actions!
Guinevere had sown the seeds of doubt. And so each time the word came down to him that Lady This and That or Mr. Who or What was not at home, he had bowed his head politely and made his departure. And after a half dozen of those refusals he had returned to Sir Humboldt’s home, packed his things and returned to the country.
Jarman came into the room bearing a tea tray. As he set the tray down, Lancelot nodded his thanks and asked, “Do you know if there are any hovels to let in the vicinity?”
“Hovels, my lord?” Jarman asked.
“I believe that is what Lady Guinevere recommended to me,” Lancelot said. “You must know I cannot continue here much longer.”
“No, my lord. I am not personally aware of any hovels. Shall I inquire in the village?”
“Never mind. What the devil am I going to do, Jarman? All my schemes have come to naught. You and William had better take yourselves off.”
“Certainly my lord. And where would you wish us to be off to?”
“How should I know?” Lancelot said crossly. “I only know I’m not in a position to pay your salaries, nor ever likely to be. You’d best find other accommodations.”
“Perhaps I should inquire for a hovel large enough for the three of us, my lord,” Jarman replied. “I believe I speak for William as well as myself when I say we have no inclination to leave you.”
He paused, then asked, “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“No, damn you! Unless you have some idea as to what I should do now?”
“Perhaps your Lordship might find the Dower House preferable to a hovel,” Jarman suggested.
“The Dower House?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And find someone to lease this old pile?”
“Yes, my lord. It is true that this house is in a poor state of repair, but it remains fundamentally sound and is situated near enough to London, that I believe your Lordship might well find someone happy to lease it and bring it back into good condition.”
“Some merchant no doubt, with plenty of blunt to waste. Tell me, Jarman, do you think we could bear to see some damned Cit living in these halls?”
“What must be borne can be borne, my lord.”
“Now you’re sounding like Lady Guinevere. Leave me to my tea,” Lancelot said. He poured himself a cup and added a spoonful of sugar as Jarman let himself out of the room. The butler’s suggestion stayed with him, though, and left him imagining what sort of gaudy decorating touches a citizen tenant might consider appropriate for his house – gilded wall sconces and mahogany side boards, no doubt, and some kind of vulgar pavilion out in the middle of the park. A slow shudder slid up his spine.
He stirred his tea and began a mental inventory of his life not altogether unlike that made by Thomas and Sarah earlier that week. He had enjoyed his life, to be sure, and could not regret any of the delightful ladies who had shared his bed. It had all been marvelous, but that extravagant life was over now. Finished.
He should have married Guinevere, of course. He’d intended to, never guessing she’d find someone her very first Season. It had been a shock to realize she wasn’t going to be beautiful and he’d been young and stupid and thought he had plenty of time. Then when he lost her, he’d continued on the course he’d started. And despite his broken heart, he’d enjoyed his life, truly he had. Guinevere had stayed his friend, and Charles, so clever and fun, had quickly become a dear companion as well. Really they had become his family. The family of his heart, more valued always than the few remaining blood relations he had. But – that was done, too, now.
No family. No friends. No lovers. No children willing to acknowledge him.
The Dower House and two loyal servants. And a front row seat to the vulgarization of his childhood home.
Lancelot smiled a bitter smile and took a sip of his tea. A drink to new beginnings.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT : In Which Love Has Its Way
Charles was absent when Guinevere arrived home. Since he had left no word that he was dining out, she guessed that he would take care to arrive late enough to assure that there would be no time for conversation before dinner. Guinevere was, however, in no mood to tolerate delay. Louisa had recommended a surprise attack. After a few moments’ consideration, Guinevere sent word downstairs that dinner tonight was to be set on the sideboard in the breakfast room.
“Mr. Stanton and I shall serve ourselves, buffet-style, just as they do in France,” she told Chilton. “We shall not need anyone to wait upon us tonight.”
Chilton allowed himself the liberty of one slightly raised eyebrow and went to deliver the message. Guinevere went upstairs to change.
When they both came down to dinner, Guinevere directed Charles to the breakfast room.
“What is this, my dear?” he asked.
“An ambush, I believe it is called,” Guinevere said, linking her arm in his as they made their way. She took a slow breath. “I am ambushing you. I have dispensed with our servants and we shall talk over our dinner, since otherwise you will persist in avoiding me.”
“I do not know to what purpose.” His voice was almost a moan. “I assure you I cannot agree to a separation, if that is what you intend.”
Her step faltered for just a moment, but she spoke firmly.
“I can promise you that I have no such intention,” she said, and could not resist adding, with some severity, “What would be the point of that, pray tell, since you insist on absenting yourself at every opportunity. We might as well be separated already.”
He gave a little sigh and put his hand over hers before continuing. She looked up at him as they entered the room and their eyes met, her gaze still somewhat fierce and his rather chastened and more than a little quizzical. Indeed, he was almost smiling, a dimple hovering at the corner of his dear mouth. She caught her breath. Never had he looked more beautiful to her than at this moment. Her husband. Her darling.
She wanted to throw herself into his arms, but held herself back. She reminded herself of Charles’ recent aloofness, of Lancelot’s perfidy, and would not allow herself to be distracted by that sweet smile. She must go forward. She had gathered her courage for this ambush, and would not let the opportunity pass her by.
When she could find her voice, she said, as coolly as she could, “We have a great deal to talk about, but let us first fill up our plates and sit down. We will pretend we are at breakfast.” She proceeded to the sideboard and filled her plate almost at random from the various dishes that had been placed there. Charles followed her lead and then poured some wine for both of them.
“This is an odd way of having our dinner,” he commented as he took his seat opposite her.
“I understand it is becoming quite the thing on the continent,” Guinevere said, “but I do not think it will take here in London.”
“No,” Charles said.
“Charles,” Guinevere said, poking her fork tentatively at a morsel of carrot, “Did you know that Lancelot has been telling everyone that he is in love with me?”
Charles nodded. “I believe the expression he uses is that he ‘gave his heart’ to you.”
“It is outrageous! I know he has jested to that effect many times, but, Charles, he pretends to love me in earnest and uses it as an excuse to escape matrimony. Has done so for years. I was never more shocked in my life!”
Charles looked at her steadily. “You did not know?”
“Louisa told me just today. Really, Charles, this cannot continue. You must speak to him about it.”
“I spoke to him about it some forty-five years ago. It does not appear to have been effective.” Charles took a large bite of roast beef and chewed
it slowly. He looked at Guinevere with the suggestion of a smile in his eye. “Really, my dear, I don’t think you need concern yourself. From everything you have been telling me, I believe Lancelot may finally have reached the end of his rackety career.”
“Yes, but, Charles, don’t you mind?”
“Oh, a little perhaps, many years ago. But it is not so very bad as you seem to think. I believe Lancelot is sincere in this matter. He truly loves you, as much as it is possible for him to love anyone. And after a time I no longer begrudged him his tendency to put to good use the one genuine disappointment in his life. He had planned to sow a few wild oats, you know, and then return home to marry you and settle down.”
Charles leaned forward. His smile wavered. “Only, unfortunately for him, I was beforehand.”
His smile vanished altogether, then, and his voice dropped to little more than a whispered groan. “Guinevere, my love, if this is leading where I fear it may be, please say no more. I cannot bear to give you up. Please do not ask me to do so.”
Guinevere gave a little shudder, almost a sigh, as a great upwelling of relief flooded through her. “That is indeed fortunate,” she said, her voice a bit unsteady. “For I must tell you, I could not bear to give you up either.”
“But Lancelot?”
“I never once thought of Lancelot.”
Charles looked surprised. “Truly?”
“Never! My childhood friend? I love him, of course, for he is often very kind and has a marvelous sense of the ridiculous. But he is also a vain and selfish creature. Spoiled to a fault, and with a highly questionable sense of morality. He is a splendid and entertaining friend, but I cannot conceive of any circumstance in which he would ever be the husband for me. And…” She came abruptly to a stop and blushed. She felt the fear rising and forced herself to do as Louisa had advised her and think of dear good Jane Levenby, of red-haired Lady Chadwick and the clever Mrs. Goodwin.