by Mary Balogh
“And he didn't offer to make an honest woman of you?” Hannah had asked. “I thought better of him, I must confess.”
“An honest woman.” Viola had sighed and then laughed. “He did offer, Hannah, and I refused. No, don't look at me in that mulish manner. You of all people must know why I refused, why I could never marry him or any other man. I could not do that to him.”
“Why not, lovey?” Hannah had asked.
It was really a rhetorical question, but Viola had answered it anyway.
“Because I love him, that is why,” she had cried. “Because I l-l-love him, Hannah.” She had sobbed in her old nurse's arms, which were wonderfully comforting but which had somehow lost their magical ability to make all better.
She had definitely added up that column correctly, she thought now, her head bent over the account book. She had added it three times and arrived at the same total each time. The trouble was that there was no more paperwork to do and she did not want it to be at an end. She wanted to lose herself in work.
But the door opened suddenly and Maria's flushed, excited face appeared around it.
“Viola,” she said, “you are to come up immediately to Mama. She has sent me to fetch you.”
“Why?” Viola was immediately suspicious.
“I am not going to say.” Maria smirked importantly. “It is a secret.”
Viola sighed in exasperation. “He has not come back, has he?” she asked. “Tell me if he has, Maria. I do not want to see him and you may go back and tell Mama so.”
“I am not saying,” her sister said.
As Viola made her way upstairs, it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps it was Daniel Kirby who had called. But Maria would not be so excited about that, surely.
“You will never guess,” she said from just behind Viola.
There were two ladies in the sitting room with her mother, who was looking almost as flushed as Maria. Two very grand ladies, both dressed in the first state of fashion, the one quietly and expensively elegant, the other brighter and more flamboyant.
“Viola.” Her mother stood, as they both did too. “Come and make your curtsy to these ladies, who have been kind enough to call upon me and ask to make your acquaintance too.”
Maria slipped past her into the room, but Viola stood just inside the door.
“This is my eldest daughter, Viola Thornhill,” her mother said. “Her grace, the Duchess of Tresham, and Lady Heyward, Viola.” She indicated first the elegant, golden-haired lady and then the other.
Viola was never sure afterward if she curtsied or not. She did know that somehow her hands found the doorknob behind her back and gripped it as if for dear life.
Both ladies were smiling at her. The duchess spoke first.
“Miss Thornhill,” she said, “I do hope you will forgive us for calling on you and your mama without any warning. We have heard so much about you from Ferdinand, you see, and longed to make your acquaintance.”
“I am his sister,” Lady Heyward said. “You are every bit as lovely as I expected. And younger.”
Did they know? Did they know? Did Ferdinand know they were here? Did the Duke of Tresham?
“Thank you,” Viola said. “How very obliging of you to call upon Mama.”
“Her grace has invited us to take tea with her at Dudley House tomorrow afternoon, Viola,” her mother said. “Do come and sit down.”
Did they know?
“Actually, Mrs. Wilding,” the duchess said, “we would like to take Miss Thornhill for a drive with us today. It is far too lovely a day to be spent indoors. Can you spare her for an hour?”
“I am working on my uncle's books,” Viola said.
“But of course you can be spared,” her mother said. “Run and change into one of your pretty dresses. I cannot imagine where you found that old thing you are wearing. Whatever will her grace and Lady Heyward think of you?”
“Please come,” the duchess said with a warm smile for Viola.
“Yes, please do,” Lady Heyward added.
There seemed to be no other choice but to go and change. Ten minutes later Viola was seated in a very luxurious open barouche beside Lady Heyward while the duchess sat on the seat opposite, her back to the horses.
Please not to the park.
But the barouche turned in the direction of Hyde Park.
“We have disturbed and upset you,” the duchess said. “Please do not blame Ferdinand, Miss Thornhill. He did not send us. He told us you had refused his marriage offer.”
“You must have seen from your visit to my uncle's inn how unsuitable such a match would have been,” Viola said, clasping her gloved hands in her lap so that she would not fidget.
“Your mother is a real lady,” the duchess said, “and your younger sister delightful. We did not meet the older girl. You have a half-brother at school too, I believe?”
“Yes,” Viola said.
“We were so very curious, you see,” Lady Heyward said, “to meet the lady who has stolen Ferdie's heart. You have stolen it, Miss Thornhill. Did you know that? Or did he neglect to tell you, as gentlemen so often do? They can be such foolish creatures, can they not, Jane? They will make a perfectly decent marriage proposal in which they list all the considerable advantages of making a match with them and neglect to mention the only one that really matters. I refused Heyward when he first offered for me, even though he went down on one knee very prettily and looked very foolish, the poor darling. Everyone says he is just a dry old stick—at least Tresham and Ferdie say it, because of course he is so very different from them. He is not really stuffy, at least not when one is private with him, but when he first offered for me he made not the slightest hint of a mention of love. He did not even try to steal a kiss. Can you imagine anything so provoking? How could I have accepted him, even if I was head over heels for him? Now, what was it I set out to say?”
“You wondered how I could have refused Lord Ferdinand,” Viola said. The barouche was turning into the park, and her heart was beating faster. Of course, this was not the fashionable hour, which would draw the whole of the ton into the park in a few hours' time, but even so, she might be recognized at any moment. “There are very compelling reasons, believe me, none of which have anything to do with the regard in which I hold him. Not the least of those reasons is that I am not a daughter of my mother's marriage. Perhaps you wondered why my name is different from hers. It is her maiden name, you see.”
“You are a natural daughter of the late Earl of Bamber,” Lady Heyward said, taking Viola's hand in her own. “Which is nothing to be ashamed of. Natural sons cannot inherit their fathers' titles and entailed property, of course, but apart from that it is as respectable to be a natural child as to be one born within wedlock. That need not keep you from wedding Ferdie. Do you love him?”
“There is a reason,” Viola said, turning her head away so that her face would be hidden by the brim of her straw bonnet, “why that question has no relevance at all. I cannot marry him. And I will not explain to you. You must take me back to my uncle's inn, please. You would not wish to be seen with me. The duke and Lord Heyward would not wish it.”
“Oh, Miss Thornhill, do not distress yourself,” the duchess said. “I am going to tell you something that very few people know. Even Angeline will be hearing it for the first time now. Before I married Jocelyn, I was his mistress.”
Lady Heyward's hand slipped away from Viola's.
“He kept me in the house where Ferdinand took you on your return to London,” the duchess said. “Jocelyn has kept the house. We always spend an afternoon or two there when we are in town. It holds many fond memories. It was there we learned to be happy together. But that does not alter the fact that I was a mistress. A fallen woman, if you will.”
“Jane!” Lady Heyward exclaimed. “How utterly, splendidly romantic. Whyever have you never told me?”
So they did know, Viola thought. How rash of them to bring her out with them like this, in an open carriage.
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“It was always a matter of pride with me,” she said, her head averted again, “to keep on asserting that I would be no man's mistress. You knew one man, your grace. During the four years I worked, I knew so many men that I lost count. I never even tried to keep count, in fact, or wanted to. It was work. It was entirely different from your situation. I was famous. I was much in demand. I might still be recognized at any moment. Take me back home.”
“Miss Thornhill.” The duchess leaned forward and took Viola's hand in both her own. “We three are women. We understand things that men will never understand, even the men we love. We understand that what brings men pleasure by the very nature of the act can bring us none unless it is more an emotional than a physical experience, unless there is some sort of love commitment from and to our partner. We understand that no courtesan embarks on her career with a free or joyful heart. We know that no woman could enjoy such a life. And we know too—as men most certainly do not—that the woman, the person, is something quite distinct from what she does for a living. You are uncomfortable with us. You probably resent us. But I know—I sense—that I will like you very much indeed if you will allow me to. Do you love Ferdinand?”
Viola turned her head sharply to glare at the duchess and pulled her hand away. “Of course I love him,” she said. “Of course I do. Why else would I have refused him? It would be a magnificent coup, would it not, for an illegitimate whore to marry the brother of a duke? Well, this illegitimate whore will not do it. I can do only one thing in my life to demonstrate how very much I love him. One thing—I can refuse him. I can make him believe that the prospect of returning to my old life is more enticing than the possibility of marrying him. If you love him, you will take me home now and go back and tell him how coldly and disdainfully I received you. I have feelings. I have feelings, and I cannot stand much more of this. Take me home.”
The duchess turned her head and called new instructions to the coachman. Then she turned back to Viola.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “We are such meddlesome creatures, Angeline and I. But we both love Ferdinand, you see, and hate to see him miserable. Now it breaks my heart to see that you are every bit as unhappy as he. We chose the park deliberately as our destination. We wanted to be seen with you. We want to make you respectable.”
Viola laughed bitterly. “You do not understand.”
Lady Heyward touched her arm. “Oh, yes,” she said, “we do. But Jane chose the wrong word. We are not going to make you respectable, Miss Thornhill, but respected. We Dudleys have never been respectable, you see. I would never be a simpering miss. Tresham was forever fighting duels before Jane intervened one time and caused him to get shot in the leg—and it was always over women. Ferdie can never resist the most outrageous and dangerous challenges. But we never wanted to be respectable—how dull that would be! We are respected, though. No one would dare not respect us. We could make you respected too if you would give us the chance. How exciting it would be. I would give a grand ball—”
“Thank you,” Viola said quietly but firmly. “You are both very kind. But no.”
Conversation lapsed until the barouche turned into the inn yard again. The duchess's coachman jumped down from his perch to assist Viola to alight.
“Miss Thornhill.” The duchess smiled at her. “Please come for tea with your mother tomorrow. I believe she would be disappointed if you refused.”
“I am delighted,” Lady Heyward said, “to have met Miss Thornhill of Pinewood Manor at last.”
“Thank you.” Viola hurried into the inn before the barouche turned to leave again.
She had a new plan. It had come to her full-blown after they had left the park. It filled her mind with dizzying hope and bleak despair both at the same time. She needed to think through a few details.
22
F erdinand rose from his bed the following morning much later than he had intended. Of course, he had been out most of the night, dragging John Leavering and a few of his other friends from party to party—not the sort he normally attended—and even to a couple of the more notorious gaming hells. But there had been no sign at any of them of Kirby.
He intended to spend the day at Tattersall's and a few other places where the man was likely to be. He would have to be patient, he decided, though patience was not a virtue he had much cultivated. If Kirby was seeking clients for Viola, then he must do so in the places Ferdinand intended to haunt.
He was just finishing breakfast when his valet announced that a visitor had called. He handed his master a calling card.
“Bamber?” Ferdinand frowned. Bamber up and about before noon? What the devil? “Show him in, Bentley.”
The earl strode into the dining room a few moments later, looking as ill-natured as ever and more dissolute than usual. His hair was disheveled and his eyes bloodshot. He was unshaven. He must surely have been up all night, but he was not wearing evening clothes. He was dressed for travel.
“Ah, Bamber.” Ferdinand got to his feet and extended his right hand.
The earl ignored it. He strode up to the table, reaching into a capacious pocket of his carriage coat as he did so. He pulled out a couple of folded papers and slapped them down.
“There!” he said. “It was an ill wind that blew me to Brookes's that night, Dudley. I wish I'd never set foot there, and that's the truth, but I did, and it can't be helped. Damn you for all the trouble you have caused me.” He was reaching into an inner pocket as he spoke. He brought out a sheaf of banknotes and set them down beside the other papers. “Here is an end of the matter, and I hope not to hear another word about it for the rest of my days—from anyone.”
Ferdinand sat back down. “What is this?” he asked, gesturing to the papers and the money.
Bamber picked up one of the papers and unfolded it before shoving it under Ferdinand's nose.
“This,” he said, “is a copy of the codicil m'father made to his will a few weeks before he died and left with m'-mother's solicitor in York. As you can see for yourself, he left Pinewood to that chit, his by-blow. The property was never mine, and so it was never yours, Dudley.” He tapped his forefinger on the money. “And this is five hundred pounds. It is the amount you set on the table against the promise of Pinewood. It is in payment of my debt to you. Are you satisfied? It is not one fraction the worth of Pinewood, of course. If you want more—”
“It is enough,” Ferdinand said. He took the paper and read it. His eyes lingered on four of the words written there—“my daughter, Viola Thornhill.” The late earl had made this public acknowledgment of his relationship to her, then. Ferdinand looked curiously at the other man. “Have you just come from Yorkshire, Bamber? It looks as if you have been traveling all night.”
“I damned well have,” the earl assured him. “I may be a ramshackle fellow, Dudley. I may be known as something of a loose screw, but I'll not have it said that I have been a party to any fraud or cover-up. As soon as the chit said she had met m'father here just before he died—”
“Miss Thornhill?”
“She had the effrontery to come calling on me,” Bamber said. “You could have knocked me over with a bald feather. I didn't know she existed. Anyway, I knew as soon as she said it that if he had been going to do anything to his will he couldn't have done it that week he was here. I remember because I asked him to go to Westinghouse to have my allowance raised. I was living on pin money, for the love of God, and old Westinghouse always made a great to-do about giving me an advance on the next quarter. Anyway, m'father told me he had been to see Westinghouse the day before but he had not been there. His mother had died in Kent or something inconvenient like that and he had gone off to bury her. M'father left London the same day. He sometimes went to my mother's solicitor on small matters. It struck me that he might have gone to him about this—and that other matter the chit mentioned too. In fact, she seemed more concerned about that than about the will.” He tapped the other folded paper.
“Why did these not come
to light before now?” Ferdinand asked.
“Corking is not the brightest light,” Bamber said carelessly. “He forgot all about them.”
“Forgot?” Ferdinand looked at him incredulously.
The earl leaned both hands on the table and looked narrow-eyed at Ferdinand.
“He forgot,” he repeated with slow emphasis. “My questions jolted his memory. Leave it at that, Dudley. He forgot.”
Ferdinand understood immediately. The York solicitor was primarily the Countess of Bamber's. The late earl had used him out of desperation because Westinghouse had been gone from London and Bamber had known he did not have much time left in which to make all secure for his newly restored daughter. The countess had found out about the codicil, and she had persuaded her solicitor to say nothing about it. Whose decision it had been not to destroy the papers, Ferdinand could not even guess. He could merely feel grateful that one or both of them had not been prepared to go that whole criminal length.
“I don't know where to find the chit,” Bamber said. “And quite honestly, I don't intend to put myself out trying. I don't feel any obligation whatsoever to her even if she is m'half-sister. But I won't do her out of what is rightfully hers either. I daresay you know where she is. Will you take her these?”
“Yes,” Ferdinand said. He had no idea what the content of the other paper was or why she had said it was more important to her than the will. She was going to be ecstatic to learn that her unwavering faith in Bamber had not been misplaced. So she did not owe Pinewood in any way at all to him, he thought wryly.
“Good,” Bamber said. “That is it, then. I'm going home to sleep. I hope never to hear the names Pinewood or Thornhill ever again. Or Dudley either, for that matter. Corking has sent a copy of the codicil to Westinghouse, by the way.”
He turned to leave.
“Wait!” Ferdinand said, an idea popping into his head. “Sit down and have some coffee, Bamber. I haven't finished with you yet.”