Marshall heaved a sigh, hoping that his mother would choose reason over hysterics. “Mother, please tell me the facts. What specifically did this Nance fellow want?”
“Isn’t it obvious? No doubt he wanted to ask about the dissolution of her engagement. Didn’t I tell you that this humiliating attention would come?”
Marshall cursed silently. Indeed, he had almost expected it. A dissolved betrothal was prime fodder for the scandal pages, especially if it concerned a girl of Justine’s rank. “I trust you didn’t let her speak to him.”
“Certainly not.”
Marshall walked through to the library and poured himself a large brandy from the side table. His mother followed behind him, closing the door so they could speak in private.
“You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?” she said, patting her flawless gray-blonde coif. “If our name is printed in that scandalmonger’s smear rag, Justine and I will lose our voucher at Almack’s. We’ll be ruined socially.”
The golden liquid seared as it went down his throat. He didn’t drink hard liquor often. He knew better than to try to drown his troubles in drink. Like turds in seawater, troubles float.
“What I can’t fathom,” his mother said, folding herself into a chair, “is how the papers discovered it so quickly.”
He sat down opposite his mother. “I can. Stanton must have tipped them off.”
“But to what end? What does he gain by besmirching our Justine?”
He took another swallow. “There’s something you ought to know.” Circumspectly, he explained the real reason for Stanton’s breaking off the engagement, without explaining where Justine learned all she had. His mother reacted just as he had anticipated—and hoped to avoid.
She bolted out of her chair and paced the carpeting like an angry, imperious queen. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? I will have words with Justine! The nerve of that man! How dare he insult my daughter! Look at what he’s subjected us to! Her reputation will be called into question! Wait until I get my hands on that girl. She’s ruined us all!”
He rolled his eyes as she rained blame on everyone around her. “Calm yourself, Mother.”
“And you! Keeping this from me all this time!”
“Mother, please sit!” His voice cracked across the room.
Aquilla sank into the chair, her mood dissolving from outrage to devastation. “To think of our names in that fish wrapping of a newspaper. What will people say? Marshall, fetch me a drink.”
Marshall listened to his mother whimper as he went to the side table and poured her a glass of brandy. He put it into her outstretched hand.
“Thank you, my dear. I just don’t understand it. Why on earth didn’t that man just let Justine call off the engagement, like every other civilized gentleman would have done?”
Marshall rubbed his tired face. “I don’t know. I can only surmise that after he sent me that letter, he realized that he could actually get sued for breach of promise. Perhaps that’s why he set the journalist on us . . . to gather evidence of Justine’s improprieties and strengthen his position in case I decided to file suit.”
She nodded slowly. “You must go and speak to Herbert Stanton. You will make assurances you won’t sue if he will renew the betrothal to Justine. We’ll have a physician examine her and testify to her virginity. We’ll pay the man to swear to it if we have to. Just tell him to call off the journalist.”
Though he inhaled deeply, the air did not seem to enter his chest. “I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do.”
“Oh? And why not?”
Thoughts of Athena filled his head. “Well, for one thing, Justine doesn’t love him.”
His mother looked at him as though he were speaking a foreign language. “What possible weight could that have on this decision?”
His words felt unfamiliar, but they also felt right. “Don’t you want your daughter to marry out of love?”
“Preposterous. A slip of a girl like Justine can’t be counted on to choose the right man to marry. She doesn’t know her own heart.”
It sounded like something his father would have said. “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“At that age . . . did you know your own heart?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Did you love Father when you married him?”
She shook her head. “No one marries out of love. Marriages are supposed to be orchestrated so as to benefit each family. I gave your father a generous dowry, and he gave me the title of marchioness. We were an ideal match.”
Marshall recalled all the arguments that, over the years, turned into chilly aloofness. His mother didn’t attend his father, even when he was on his deathbed. “Did you stay that way? An ideal match?”
She turned her head away. “Love is one thing. Marriage is another. I did my duty. So did your father.”
For a long time, Marshall stared into the empty glass in his hand. “If you had it to do over again, would you choose love over my father?”
His mother’s gaze disappeared through the darkened window. “I wish I could say I grew to love your father. But I never did. Your grandmother said I would, but—” Her voice lost its characteristic self-assurance and aristocratic veneer. “In many ways, my life—our life—grew more unbearable once we were married. But I do not regret our marriage . . . it brought you and Justine into my world. And I gave you all the love I could not give him.”
The candlelight glittered off the etched crystal, forming a dozen false stars in his glass. He was sorry his parents had suffered such a hollow union. Better dead than wed, he used to tell himself, and now he understood why. His father had never encouraged in him much esteem for the value of women, and his mother had never done anything to prove him wrong.
But Athena did, and she proclaimed it loudly. She had brought fresh eyes to him, showing him the myriad surprises and adventures a woman has to offer. He discovered in Athena a world far more intriguing than the hazy landforms at the horizons of the sea, and he found himself wanting more. A great deal more.
He leaned over and covered his mother’s hand reassuringly with his own. Her hand was frail and papery, and the veins showed blue between the skeletal joints. It was a shame that her joy came finally at this stage in her life, now that her spouse was a year in the grave.
He didn’t want that for himself. And he didn’t want it for Justine.
FOURTEEN
“Send him away.” said Athena. “Preferably at gunpoint.”
Gert blinked in disbelief. “Miss?”
“Go out there and tell Mr. Marshall I won’t have a visit from him.”
“But Athena,” drawled Hester from her settee, where she was finishing her needlepoint. “He’s come to see you.”
Athena didn’t bother looking up from her ledger. “The day I’ll see that man again I’ll be sure to have a crossbow and a quiver full of arrows at my side.”
Gert bit her lip. “He’s most insistent, miss.”
“Gert, you have my permission to kick him out. I’d kick him out myself, only I have my best shoes on.”
Hester sighed. “Athena, I know you’re hurt over the way he left you, but perhaps you should consider this from all angles.”
“I’ve already considered him from all angles. And I have a nude sketch of him to prove it.”
“Why must you be so surly? He’s really very pleasant.”
“So is a Shetland pony, but I don’t want one in my sitting room.”
Hester raised her voice, something she didn’t do well without it wavering from emotion. “Athena, Mr. Marshall showed me great kindness the other day when I imposed my crie de coeur upon him, and he gave me invaluable advice when I needed it most. Now, you apologized to me for insulting me that day, but I’ll not forgive you if you make me go out there and tell Mr. Marshall he must leave because you won’t see him.”
Athena set her quill down roughly, creating a large blue blotch on the page. “Oh, ve
ry well. Show him in.”
Gert slinked out through the door and returned a few moments later with Marshall.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Marshall,” responded Hester.
Athena closed the ledger and stood up. “Mr. Marshall, if you’re here seeking a post, I’m afraid there is none to offer you. We are fully staffed.”
“Thank you, no, Miss McAllister. I’m here on another matter. How are you, Lady Willett?”
“I’m well, Mr. Marshall. We both are, aren’t we, Athena?”
Athena glanced at Marshall, her chin jutting forward. Marshall’s expression was apologetic. Unspoken words hung between them.
“Lady Willett, I wonder if you’d be good enough to allow me a private interview with Miss McAllister?”
Athena glanced at Hester and nodded curtly.
“Certainly,” said Hester, her dress whispering as she exited and closed the door behind her.
Marshall held his hands up. “Athena—”
“Don’t speak to me again.”
“Hear me out.”
“I’d rather throw you out.”
“Please understand . . . you’re the only woman in the world I would have walked out on at a moment like that.”
Sarcasm dripped from her lips. “Thank you very much! I don’t know if I can withstand any more of your compliments.”
He hung his head. “You know what I mean. I respect you. I wanted to safeguard your honor.”
“Sod my honor. What about my pride? One moment you’re cheering me up and making me feel beautiful, and the next you’re tossing me over like a wheelbarrow full of cow pats.”
He had to chuckle at the imagery. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Truly. But it was important to me not to take advantage of you in your fragile state.”
“Well done, Mr. Marshall. High marks for gallantry.”
Marshall sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started a fire I couldn’t control.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. This fire has gone quite cold.”
“That’s the last thing I want. Athena—”
“If you’ve come to make an apology, you’ve done it. You may go now.”
“Don’t dismiss me like that,” he said, the edge returning to his voice. “Please . . . I have a request to make.”
“You have a request to make of me?” Athena sat down and crossed her arms at her chest. “My, this promises to be fun.”
“It’s a serious matter, Athena. I need to speak to Countess Cavendish.”
She chuckled. “That’s out of the question.”
“Why?”
She leaned forward over the desk. “Because I handle matters concerning the staff.”
“It’s imperative that I see her.”
“Tell me what is so important that it warrants troubling the countess.”
“I can’t. With all due respect, this matter goes over your head.”
Athena’s nostrils flared with indignation. “Well, let’s hope this doesn’t go over yours. Get out!”
Marshall stepped out into the street. The day was sunny and cloudless, but he could not dispel the shadow that lay across him.
He fully expected the stubborn Athena to refuse him admission to see Countess Cavendish, but even the gentle Hester was unwilling to help.
It was time he raised his voice a little. The countess had to be told of the imminent danger of the journalist’s interest. He knew it was only a matter of time before the school’s misconduct would be exposed, and many young ladies, his sister included, would be vilified. He couldn’t reveal his true identity to Athena and Hester, but he could appeal to Countess Cavendish as himself.
He had tried consulting Debrett’s Peerage for the countess’s residence, but he couldn’t find any mention of a Countess Cavendish. He was frustrated by the dead end, but it was not uncommon for some nobles to be left out of the book. Some people with new titles, or even Continental peers, were sometimes left out of the book altogether. He decided to try one more tack.
Marshall rapped on the door to the offices of Messrs. Stewart and Newman, publishers of Countess Cavendish’s Feminine Excellence, or Every Young Woman’s Guide to Ladylike Comportment. It didn’t take long for him to be ushered in to see Mr. Hadley Stewart, the editor. All he had to do was say that he himself was a journalist for the Times, and that he was writing a piece extolling the virtues of that manual for the edification of women. Marshall found Mr. Stewart practically panting for the increased revenue such an article would surely bring.
Mr. Stewart was effusively jovial, if a bit obsequious. Light flashed off his small round spectacles as he animatedly discussed, in exaggerated terms, the success of the book. He was quick to draw attention to his shelves, where books printed under his signet were perched like trophies.
“But it’s of particular interest to the paper that I interview the authoress,” explained Marshall. “My readers will no doubt want a few words from her to learn the inspiration that spawned such a great volume. Would it be possible for me to meet her?”
The man smiled broadly. “I’m certain she would not object to a very brief visit, especially in light of your willingness to write a favorable review in the Times.”
“Why only briefly?”
“The countess, as I understand it, is not a well woman. Concerns for her health have kept her in seclusion in the country.”
Marshall could not conceal his surprise. “Do you mean to tell me that Countess Cavendish is not residing in London?”
“I’m afraid not. But it isn’t far to her home in Surrey.”
Confusion creased his brow. Athena gave him the impression that the countess was practically in residence at the school to which she had given her name. “Are you certain that the countess is not even visiting London? For the Season, I mean?”
Grizzled eyebrows hovered over the spectacles. “Quite certain. I had a letter from her just last week, return address Kingston Lodge, Shepherds Green, Surrey. When you see her, perhaps you will be good enough to invite her once more to London. I’ve been most anxious to meet her.”
“You’ve never met her?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never been offered the pleasure, no.”
“What about the school?”
The eyebrows drew together above the rims of the spectacles. “School? What school?”
Marshall rose quickly. “No matter. Thank you for your time, and for her address. I shall of course convey your good wishes.”
He stepped once more onto the curb. The city was practically teeming with pedestrians enjoying the lovely weather, but despite the cheery disposition infusing all of London, Marshall’s mood had distinctly stormed over.
FIFTEEN
Marshall’s carriage rumbled through Surrey. And for each of the bum-numbing miles between London and his destination, his anger at Miss Athena McAllister mounted.
Mentally, he counted off the indictments against her. She was a liar. A fraud. A contrary minx. She was running a business under a stolen standard, using someone else’s name to bring in money for herself. School for the Womanly Arts indeed! It was just shy of being a bordello, one that pandered to women instead of men. And Athena was its Mademoiselle! He wanted to punish her for her deception—and for her abrasiveness. Her ready insults skewered him at every opportunity, and he withstood it as a gentleman would. But each time he thought up ways to tame that sharp tongue of hers, he inevitably wound up fantasizing about putting it to more pleasurable uses.
As he drew near the village where Countess Cavendish resided, he was overtaken by suspicion. Shepherds Green was exactly that—a cluster of hills dotted with sheep, and at the center of it was a rustic village of tanners, blacksmiths, and ostlers. He rode through the high road on the way to Kingston Lodge, expecting to find a palatial estate at the end of his journey. As Marshall’s carriage trundled up the unpaved road, it led him to a weathered country house at the crest of a hill.
The hou
se was baronial and impressive, but had a particularly unloved look to it, as if the inhabitants had neglected to recognize its grandeur. The knocker squeaked loudly in complaint as he rapped. After a few moments, a man came to the door.
“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Marshall Hawkesworth, Marquess of Warridge. I’d like to see Countess Cavendish, if she’d be so good as to oblige me.”
The stout man looked him up and down in disbelief. “Countess Cavendish?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t have an appointment, but I’d be most grateful if she’d grant me an audience.”
The man looked askance at Marshall. “Who told you she lives here?”
“Someone in London gave me this address. May I come in?”
“There’s no countess here.”
His eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. “But I’m sure this is the address I was given.”
“You’ve been misinformed. Goodbye.” He swung the door.
Marshall stopped it with his forearm. “Sir,” he began, holding his temper against the rudeness. “I’ve driven all the way from London. I don’t wish to impose upon your patience, but it is a matter of great importance. Her good name and fortune are at stake.”
The man’s eyebrows drew together. “What about her fortune?”
“May I explain inside?”
The man sighed, but held open the door. Marshall stepped through, and was led to the front sitting room.
The room was comfortable but had a distinctly masculine expression to it. The air was thick with pipe smoke, and the walls were heavy with mounted heads and racks of antlers. Great leather chairs flanked a dead fireplace, between which stood a table made of an elephant’s leg.
Marshall despised hunting. Though he was not above enjoying a generous plate of venison or pheasant, he was averse to the perspective that killing animals was some sort of sport. There was a vile, bloody aspect to it that he found distasteful. It was bad enough that men celebrated when they killed an animal, but he became disgusted when they gloated over wounding one. He couldn’t abide suffering, and leaving an animal wingless or with a bullet in a flank was abhorrent to him. On his estate, game for the table was trapped, not hunted.
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