by Diana Lloyd
Why on earth had the daft lass kissed him? That too brief kiss was full of hope and promise and all the unspoken words in a lover’s glance. At least it was to him. If only she hadn’t looked at him with those guileless eyes, if only she hadn’t smiled at him so sweetly and spoke to him so earnestly. Quin sighed. He should have walked away and left her to be someone else’s problem.
He took another long pull of the whisky, emptying the bottle. As of this evening, his options had dwindled to either marriage or a duel with a duke. It rankled nearly beyond his tolerance to have his hand forced by a woman. His last encounter with a conniving female had led him to his current…predicament. Quin smiled ruefully, it was such an innocuous sounding word for the mess his life had become. Betrayal, murder, misery—all summed up into that one harmless sounding word by the man he’d hired to investigate it. The word did so little to convey the hell he was enduring. And yet, no one must know.
Quin reached inside his jacket pocket, pulled out a silver portrait case, and snapped it open. A miniature of his son occupied one side, the other was empty. He could never bring himself to put her picture there, even before—well, even before everything.
He’d made the charcoal portrait of his son less than six months ago. It showed a chubby, happy toddler with bouncing curls and a wide slobbery grin. Little had he known when he’d drawn it, that other than a granite headstone, the sketch would be the only tangible evidence that his son had existed at all.
Quin set the case on the desktop, leaving it open to keep the image of his child with him for a few precious moments longer. So small and trusting, little Jamie was an innocent victim of the treachery of adults. And you, Quin chastised himself, you were complacent. You ignored the warnings and pretended that with time everything could be made right. Jamie didn’t have the gift of time. When he could no longer bear to recall the sound of his boy’s childish laughter or imagine the softness of his blond curls beneath his fingertips, Quin reached again for the bottle only to find it already empty. He’d failed his son; how many more people would suffer because he failed to stop evil in time?
The scandal of his past could not come to light. He was the last Graham in the family line. With the deaths in quick succession of his parents and then his son, he was left the sole guardian of the family name. Should he die without issue, the barony would go extinct, and the title would revert to the crown. He could not disappoint his father, his grandfather, and every other Graham who had lived well and died nobly so that the family name would fade away, its lands and properties becoming nothing more than a bit of coin to enrich the English crown’s coffers.
At the moment, the parson’s mousetrap was the lesser of available evils. A quick, tidy resolution followed by a rapid retreat to Scotland was his most logical choice. With any luck, the matter would finally be put to rest, and his life could return to normal. Whatever normal may be for a man such as himself. A man who had perhaps seen too much and done too little—or was it the other way around?
He found another bottle of spirits, snapped the wax seal, and pulled out the cork with his teeth before taking a bitter swallow. He’d call on the household of the Duke of Wallingford tomorrow afternoon and do the pretty on bended knee for his unlucky daughter. May God have mercy on her soul.
…
“You’ve ruined everything!” Elsinore’s mother exclaimed between loud sobs and the waving of her handkerchief as she collapsed into a silver damask chair in the family sitting room. The sight of her mother’s tears was unnerving. While the duchess tended toward the dramatic, Elsinore had never seen her so genuinely distraught.
With the blood-red wine stains on her gown suggesting utter ruination, Elsinore clutched her savior’s lone shoe like a talisman. She’d grabbed it up and thought to return it to him, perhaps with a bit of explanation…or at least conversation. But her father had her hustled out of the room and into the family carriage before she could even thank the man for helping her.
“Mama, I told you, he was only coming to my aid.” Elsinore looked from her mother to her father, hoping for any hint of forgiveness on their faces, but she found only hurt and anger. It wasn’t easy having four perfect sisters. Four successful marriages and not a hint of a scandal among them. And all four had been ringing a peal over her head all the way home in the carriage before abandoning her to her fate. She must have heard the phrase “How could you?” a hundred times.
The Duke of Wallingford shook his head. “All we asked of you, my dear, was to stay by your mother’s side. Yet you could not obey this one simple command.”
“I just thought…” Elsinore hung her head and left her thoughts unvoiced. She could hardly admit to chasing Lord Byron through the corridors without looking even more of a hoyden. Raised to a life of wealth and privilege, how could she possibly explain to her parents the overwhelming conviction that she needed something more? An adventure, a calling, a purpose… She needed to be more than just their youngest.
“No,” her father said, interrupting her thoughts. “You clearly weren’t thinking at all, certainly not about your reputation.”
Before Elsinore could rise to her own defense, her mother rejoined the argument. “Darling, you don’t seem to understand the consequences of what you’ve done.” She sniffed into her handkerchief again.
“Papa,” Elsinore pleaded. “Surely you have the influence to make this all go away.” The enormity of that evening’s events was just starting to sink in. Oh, why did I have to kiss him? Something about faeries. She couldn’t even begin to explain that to her parents. Mentioning Byron would only send her mother into another episode of the vapors.
“And how should I go about doing that, my darling daughter? I wasn’t the only one who saw you and that Scotsman lying together steeped in wine. From the hallway, it looked very much as if you were kissing the fellow. The more I try to explain it away as a misunderstanding, the more firmly it will be believed as a scandal.”
“I’ve already told you, Papa, nothing happened.” Elsinore reached up and brushed her fingertips against her bottom lip. Not precisely nothing—she had kissed the man. More importantly, if she wasn’t mistaken, he’d kissed her back. “It wasn’t like that,” she explained.
“What about the fact that you were lying together on the floor?” he asked, incredulously.
“I believe the poor man slipped in the wine and fell to the floor.” She looked down and plucked at her ruined gown, attempting to rearrange it to cover more flesh than it could manage. “I, unfortunately, fell with him.”
“And why was there wine on the floor?”
“Because he poured it on my hand.” Elsinore felt her face begin to redden as she realized her explanations sounded more than a little far-fetched.
“The man was pouring wine in your hand?” Her father’s face hardened with barely suppressed rage.
“Not in my hand—on my hand. Specifically, on my wrist.”
“Whatever for?” her mother asked, sounding both shocked and confused.
“Because I got it stuck.” Elsinore sighed and lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “In Lord Winchcombe’s guillotine.”
Her father stared at her. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly twice before he could find his voice. “What of the licentious utterances that were overheard?”
Licentious? It had all been so innocent; she hadn’t blushed once. “We only spoke of ways to release my hand without bloodshed. We talked of pulling it out, pushing it in, turning it a bit—oh, and of the swelling, of course, which made it suddenly too big for the hole.”
“I need my smelling salts.” The duchess abandoned her handkerchief and snapped open her fan, fluttering it like a wounded bird. “Marie!” her mother screeched for her lady’s maid, who always managed to have a vinaigrette in her pocket no matter the hour.
Elsinore turned to her father in time to see his mouth fall open again. For the next minute, there was no sound but the frantic flapping of her mother’s silk-and-ivory fan and
her father’s footsteps as he paced back and forth across the room.
“At least he did the gentlemanly thing and offered for you,” her father said at last.
“I’ll refuse him,” she said hopefully. Elsinore was positive that given enough time, she’d find a way to mend all that had gone wrong that evening. She just had to.
“It is your father’s duty to see to it that you make an acceptable match.” Her mother calmed herself enough to remind her. “It is his right to approve or disapprove any gentleman’s offer for your hand.”
“Papa?” Elsinore clutched the shoe to her breast as her father avoided her gaze. A dull ache began throbbing behind her eyes. Surely she would not be forced into a poor match. She’d only be twenty next week, hardly a spinster. Her father was not a cruel man. His laughter had echoed through the halls just this afternoon as they readied for the ball—she’d made a witty remark, and he’d vowed it so clever that he was going to repeat it at his club.
“I don’t believe you could make it through the rest of the season without another scandal, not with the disobedience you’ve already shown.” There was no anger behind his words, only resignation.
“What disobedience?” she asked warily, afraid she already knew the answer.
Her father harrumphed and shook his head. “Did you not climb up, unassisted, in a complete stranger’s high-perch phaeton on Bond Street last week?”
“I’d never been in a high-perch before, and it was so smart. Brother promised to teach me the ribbons this year, and I decided I wanted a carriage just like it.” It was a quick and convenient lie. In truth, she’d spied Lady Throckmorton and her dandified son and scrambled off the walkway to avoid them. Pendergast Throckmorton, heir to a viscountcy, wasn’t only an uneducated, self-centered fop, he was permanently attached to his harridan of a mother’s elbow. Elsinore would have thrown herself in front of a moving carriage to avoid yet another invitation to take tea with Lady Throckmorton.
“Half the ton saw you scampering up into a phaeton like a circus monkey,” her father continued.
“I assure you, I was as un-monkeylike as possible,” she said meekly.
“Oh good. I was worried you’d made a spectacle of yourself.”
Elsinore winced at the sarcasm in her father’s voice. As the youngest, she was accustomed to a measure of clemency not enjoyed by her older siblings and his words stung.
“Shall I mention the incident at the Trent’s musicale?” he asked.
Deciding a bit of truth would serve her better, Elsinore stood up straighter before explaining. “In an attempt to avoid unwanted attention from Lord Butterworth, I chose the most efficient point of egress.”
“You jumped out of a window!” her father roared back. A large man with long, stark white hair, his tone of voice reminded Elsinore of why he was considered a persuasive force in the House of Lords.
“It was a French window,” Elsinore muttered. “And it was more of a skip than a jump.”
Her mother stopped sniffling long enough to ask, “And what is wrong with Lord Butterworth? He’s the heir of an earl, for heaven’s sake.”
“He smells like rotting eggs.” Elsinore wrinkled her nose.
“They all smell, dear,” her mother said. “You need to learn to breathe through your mouth.” Her father snorted at her mother’s explanation.
“I refuse to spend the rest of my life breathing through my mouth. I’ll look consumptive. A measure of cleanliness should not be too much to expect from a prospective husband.”
“Have you already forgotten the scandal at the Dardens’ country house, which caused your season to be deferred to this year instead of last?” her father interjected, clearly unhappy with the direction their conversation had taken.
“For the hundredth time, I didn’t realize they were going to swim. I thought the young men were going to have an adventure, and I didn’t want to miss it. I left as soon as I saw… That is, as soon as I realized they were unclothed. It was an innocent misunderstanding, hardly a scandal. There was no harm done to any party involved and no reason for Darden to tell his father he spotted me.”
“No harm?” her father exclaimed. “If their cousin hadn’t chosen that very weekend to elope and distract everyone, I don’t know what we would have done about your reputation.”
“I had to tell everyone you had a putrid throat all last season and had been sent to the country to recuperate. We’re lucky beyond measure that their scandal was more interesting than yours, or people would still be talking about it,” her mother added.
Elsinore looked down to the drooping hem of her ripped gown, the ragged edges of white silk now gray where it trailed along the floor, and the telltale spots of red wine marked her as unsuitable. She clutched at the sleeve that, thanks to popped stitches, refused to stay in place on her shoulder, as she gathered her thoughts. She had to admit, she really did look a fright. She was tired of explaining herself, and every time she tried to consider the possible consequences, her stomach flipped in the most alarming way.
She wanted to scream. Instead, she whispered, “I just wanted to make my own adventure.”
Her father clasped his hands together behind his back. “This attitude is exactly why I will be accepting Lord Graham’s offer. May God have mercy on his soul.”
Chapter Three
“Make your new hound welcome with clean, adequate space. By no means should he be treated any differently than any other member of the pack. Even a promising pup must earn his rise to lead dog.” Oglethorpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine
“Do not mistake my acceptance of this situation for my tacit approval, Graham.” Wallingford motioned to the empty chair pulled up next to his massive mahogany desk.
“No, and thank you, Your Grace.” The wooden straight-backed chair was not inviting. The Wallingford servants must have been sent on a search for the most uncomfortable chair in the household for his interview. Quin wouldn’t be surprised if it had been pulled down from the attic. He sat, ramrod straight, hoping that his arse wouldn’t soon be aching as much as his head.
Last night’s goal of getting as drunk as humanly possible proved to be the second most unwise decision he’d made in the past twenty-four hours. The effort to wash, dress, and arrive in a timely fashion taxed what little faculties he’d been able to stimulate with a few gulps of scalding black coffee.
“I can send a footman for some sherry, if you’d like. This is, after all, meant to be a civil conversation.”
Oh God no. The effort of shaking his head caused a renewed throbbing at his temples. “No thank you, Your Grace.”
“There’s nothing more tedious than being Your Graced to death. You might as well call me Wallingford.”
“Yes, Your Gr—uh, Wallingford. Thank you.”
“Quite. Let’s get to it then.” Wallingford pushed his chair back and leveled a hard, uncomfortable stare. “Do you have family nearby, Graham? My wife will, of course, receive them, and my elder daughters will make a social call.”
Quin froze. “No,” he finally managed. “My parents perished in a carriage accident on Ben Lomond a year ago.” Quin stopped short of uttering the last word—today. It was a year ago today that he discovered the wreck of their carriage in the rain-swollen burn. He could only hope that the tumble down the mountainside knocked them senseless before they entered the water. The coachman’s body, presumed washed all the way down to Loch Lomond by the current, was never found. Even the horses drowned.
Gripping the inelegant arm of the chair to steady himself, Quin waited for Wallingford to ask after his wife and child. Having no English relatives, it was likely that no one in London had even heard the news of his marriage, let alone the untimely deaths that followed. But Wallingford was a man with connections, a man who prided himself on knowing things. If asked, Quin would admit what he could. But only if asked.
Wallingford’s eyes narrowed, and he drummed his fingers on the desktop. Once. Twice. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Quin swallowed
hard and mentally prepared what he hoped would be a sufficient answer to the question he knew was coming. Instead, Wallingford reached for a quill, dipped it into the inkpot, and scratched out a few lines on a piece of scrap paper.
“My terms.” Wallingford slid the paper across the desk. “I sent a note around to my solicitor just this morning. He will have the formal papers drawn up as soon as possible. These figures are non-negotiable.”
Quin glanced down at the paper before folding it in half and stuffing it in his coat pocket. The settlement heavily favored the bride-to-be, but they were not unreasonable. If she took the Graham name, she would earn every penny of it.
“A copy of the formal agreement will be sent to your address. I expect it signed before the wedding takes place. We’ll speak more then, should you need anything clarified. If you haven’t a solicitor in town, I could recommend one.”
“I have a man, thank you.” Quin shifted in the tortuous chair, glad their business had come to an end so quickly.
“One more thing.” Wallingford pushed himself back from his desk and opened a drawer. “Did you think to bring a token of engagement for her?”
“I’m afraid I did not.” Quin shook his pounding head again.
“Give her this.” Wallingford pulled a small blue satin pouch from the drawer and tossed it on the desk. “I had it made for my dear girl’s birthday, but she should have something today. Something to put the bright smile back on her face.”
“Thank you. I’ll do my best.” The man’s love for his child was written all over him. It was a knife to Quin’s scarred heart. He’d felt that love once, and it was used against him. He picked up the pouch and stuffed it into his pocket.
Wallingford rose and walked around the desk. “My daughter,” he began, but then seemed to think better of it. “That is, if I might ever be of any assistance, you need only contact me. Her happiness is…everything to me. And so it should be to you.”
“I will…” Quin’s head swam as he stood and extended his hand. You will what? Try not to kill her? He let the half-finished sentiment to hang in the air.