The Gentleman's Promise (Daughters of Amhurst)

by Fowlkes, Frances

  “Last I heard, you were not in the market for a wife at all.”

  “I am not, and I daresay you would do well to adopt my philosophy. In my experience, marriage is not worth the effort.” The marquess gave him a thin smile and directed his gaze toward Lady Vincent. “She appears agitated this evening. It does not bode well for your Lady Sarah.”

  The woman’s eyes were directed toward where she sat on the outer rim of the circle, near the pianoforte, farthest away from the fire, though why she would invoke the woman’s attention was beyond him. She had done nothing to earn such a disagreeable glare, at least not since the afternoon’s game of whist. It was possible the marchioness was not looking at Sarah at all, but at Olivia, who, with a rather forlorn expression, sat to Sarah’s right, peering into the depths of her china tea cup.

  “Perhaps the marchioness does not like the pastel pink shade of my sister’s gown.” The dress was a modest one and not near as striking as Sarah’s. Olivia was a bit of a hoyden to be certain, but with her winsome smile and ready compliments, she passed beneath most of the matrons’ noses without any undue attention.

  There was, however slight the possibility, a chance his sister had done something to irk the marchioness, thereby earning her condemnation. But he heavily doubted it.

  “Perhaps she does not like pink,” continued the marquess, his lips quirking. “Though it is far more likely Lady Sarah said something a bit too forward for the marchioness’s way of thinking.”

  “I don’t know. Her visible grievance could be nothing more than a direct result of a swallow of bitters,” he added, looking to change the direction of the conversation. “Lady Sarah would do nothing to hinder her reputation.”

  “Then why her poisonous glare, Annesley?” The woman was clearly displeased, her hands clenched in a fist in her lap. “I have not seen her so disgruntled since this afternoon, when Lady Sarah offered her medicinal expertise to Mr. De la Pole.” He lifted a brow and took another sip of his coffee. “A strange move for a girl hoping to sway popular opinion away from her past.”

  “She offered encouragement the best way she was able,” Jonathon said with a touch of asperity.

  “If reminding others of her unusual interests and capacity for injury is the best way, then perhaps she is not as astute as I first thought her.”

  “Sometimes a person’s emotions overrule their better judgment.”

  The marquess gave a knowing nod. “That they do. And yet, I believe the marchioness knows something we do not.”

  “If we wish to know why the lady is upset, we have only to ask.” He gave the marquess a nod and began his way toward Lady Vincent. She sat near the hearth, the heat from the flames flushing her skin an unbecoming shade of red that only served to emphasize her pique. Weaving his way through a collection of seated misses and their elderly chaperons, Jonathon bowed before the marchioness, giving her his most charming smile. “Lady Vincent.”

  His smiles were usually enough to encourage a bit of joviality, but she was not to be swayed. If anything, she appeared more disgruntled with his arrival. She barely acknowledged him at all, her gaze flicking back to Sarah. Clearing his throat, he said, “I couldn’t help but notice your smile is not quite as bright as earlier and thought to inquire if there was anything that could be done to restore its luster.”

  “If you have nothing of merit to say, Mr. Annesley, you may take Lady Sarah off for another scolding.”

  A scolding? Was that what she had assumed he had done earlier in the portrait gallery? Wouldn’t she be in for a surprise if she knew it was not words he had exchanged with Sarah, but kisses.

  “I do not make it a habit to reprimand young ladies, especially when I am unaware of their injury, my lady.”

  “She has not regaled you of her error?”

  “I am but her friend’s brother, not her confidante,” he answered carefully. He wanted to be her confidante, indeed, had often thought himself thus. But he doubted such an admission would earn him an explanation from Lady Vincent…or much favor from Lord Vincent.

  He glanced about the room. He’d expected the elder lord’s eyes to be on him, watching to see if he had, indeed, taken his words to heart by setting himself apart from Sarah. His search yielded the only marquess in the room to be Lord Satterfield.

  “She has tampered with Lord Vincent’s wine.”

  His stomach sank. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Lady Sarah,” the marchioness said, this time loud enough for the nearest ladies to hear, “has altered Lord Vincent’s wine.”

  A collective gasp rent the air. All conversation halted as every head turned toward Sarah, who stiffened in her chair.

  “Lady Sarah has not strayed from the party for the entirety of the evening.” True, she had disappeared to her room after their disagreement in the portrait gallery, which allowed for some time alone, but that hardly offered a motive for the malice Lady Vincent suggested.

  “I don’t how or why, but I am certain she is responsible for his sudden illness.” The marchioness spoke with conviction and condemnation. She motioned for a servant.

  A footman stepped forward, in his hands, the book of English trees he had found at Sarah’s side earlier in the library. Jonathon’s stomach sank further.

  “This book is evidence of her crimes,” said the marchioness.

  “It is but a book, madame,” Jonathon argued.

  “A book on English trees, to be precise, and their properties. It was found this morning in the library by one of the footmen.”

  “It is a crime to read?” asked Jonathon.

  “It is a crime when it harms another,” she bit out. “Especially when that person is the marquess.”

  “Is he not well?” Jonathon asked.

  “Of course not. I would not make such an allegation if he were well. He took to his bed after dinner, complaining of a mild headache.”

  “A headache can hardly be placed at Lady Sarah’s feet. It is a common affliction and she has no intentions of hurting her hosts.”

  Sarah rose. “Mr. Annesley speaks the truth, my lady. I have no quarrels with your husband. He has been most welcoming.”

  The elder lady’s dark brows lifted. “Was a grievance against your sister required for her to take ill from your tinctures and teas?”

  Sarah’s jaw flexed. “I have no tainted things here or anywhere, for that matter. They have all been destroyed.”

  “What of the wine you promised to Mr. De la Pole?” asked Lady Vincent accusingly, rising from her chair. “Do you not have a supply along with you?”

  “I do,” Sarah readily replied. “But it is in my chambers and for my personal use only. I have not once had a reaction to its stores and I cannot believe it would affect Lord Vincent adversely if he were to somehow have obtained a portion.” She jutted her chin defensively, looking like a heraldic queen in command of her audience.

  He was captivated, spellbound, and quite aroused by her display of command. He was also utterly furious at Lady Vincent for her unsupported allegations.

  “Am I supposed to believe someone who has been found guilty of the same crime—”

  “No infraction has occurred,” Jonathon stated. “A book on trees was found in the library, and Lord Vincent suffers from a headache. Such an ailment does not denote a misdeed has been committed. Nor does a misplaced volume on flora.”

  “It does not,” agreed Olivia. She rose, her silk gown rustling as she stood beside Sarah.

  Lady Vincent sniffed. “Lord Vincent commented on the abnormal flavor of his wine at dinner. How peculiar that such an oddity should occur whilst Lady Sarah is amongst our guests.”

  Jonathon suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the marchioness’s dramatics. “While I am sympathetic to Lord Vincent’s condition, there is no proof the wine is the cause of his ailing. Or that Lady Sarah is in any way responsible.”

  Olivia took a step forward. “I did not notice any indistinct flavors in my wine this evening.”

 
; “Nor I,” added Jonathon. “And it was poured from the same decanter only minutes after Lord Vincent received his.” He glanced about the room. “Did anyone else taste an odd flavor or notice anything peculiar about the quality of their wine?”

  Mr. De la Pole shook his head, appearing ready enough to counter the assertion until Lady Vincent’s withering glare settled upon him.

  The only person who didn’t appear cowed by the marchioness was Lord Satterfield, who finally found his voice. “Perhaps it would be more beneficial to call for a physician than to cast blame before we know the full extent of the marquess’s injuries.”

  Lady Vincent frowned. “Our usual physician, Mr. Tinsdale, is unable to come until morning. Another patient detains him.”

  “Then we shall wait for morning to see how the marquess fares,” Satterfield offered. “Until then, I think it best to retire for the evening.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Jonathon said. A few heads nodded. Sarah, however continued to stand erect, unmoving. She had once again retreated inward, her face stoic as a few souls rose in departure. Surely, he had only to offer a wink of solidarity and she would come round…if she would look his way.

  Which she didn’t.

  Satterfield strolled past him, offering his arm out to Lady Vincent. With a sidelong glance at Jonathon, he said, “A footman outside of Lady Sarah’s room this evening would not be remiss.”

  Sarah’s jaw unhinged. “I hardly think—”

  “It is for your own protection, my lady,” the marquess assured. “Until this incident is resolved, it would be in your best interest to have a witness to both protect you from anyone looking to lay blame at your feet whilst also preventing further damage to your character. I am certain Mr. Annesley would agree.”

  Jonathon blinked.

  “The Earl of Amhurst has made you her guardian whilst she is here, has he not?” asked the marquess. “As a proxy to serve in his place?”

  “He has,” Jonathon said gravely.

  “Then surely, as her protector, you must agree this arrangement is the most favorable solution.”

  Favorable to the masses, perhaps, but Sarah fumed in her spot beside the pianoforte, her anger near manifesting in plumes of smoke about her head.

  It would be in her best interest, but with a guard posted outside her cell, he would be condemning her to a status akin to a prisoner.

  Olivia came alongside him and placed a heavy hand on his arm. “I cannot speak for Lady Sarah, but I shall sleep better knowing our safety is assured. Should the headache be the result of a toxin, the true culprit is still amongst us, and the security afforded by an armed footman is most welcome.” She peered up at him with a face he knew well, the one she wore whenever she demanded compliance.

  Avoiding Sarah’s infuriating glare, he sighed and said, “I cannot discredit the logic in your provision.”

  A thin smile graced Lady Vincent’s lips as she nodded toward her butler, who immediately took to her side. “Lord Vincent requires my attention. Until morning, then.”

  Lord Satterfield nodded toward Jonathon and followed the marchioness in her stately trek toward the door. The rest of the guests stood and followed her out of the room, each peering curiously at Sarah, who had not moved at all, save to replace her grimace with an expression of placid civility.

  Olivia still gripped Jonathon’s arm. “She is furious, you know,” she uttered in low tones as the last guest slipped out the door.

  “What gave it away?” he whispered out the side of his mouth. “Her immobility? Or her silence?”

  “If it is any consolation, I think you did well by her. The footman will stand guard and protect us from further speculation this evening, though I wonder who will protect me?”

  “You don’t honestly think she is guilty of the claims against her.”

  “Absolutely not. But she has suffered, Jonathon. She has been shamed, and in a public manner. She has taken umbrage against the Vincents and will voice her displeasure to the only person allowed in the room with her.”

  He patted her hand still resting on his arm. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “No,” she said, a smile curling her lips. “I wouldn’t. Though I would not discount any offer of assistance you may feel obliged to—”

  “I shall escort you both to your room.”

  “How kind and thoughtful you are.” She sighed and nodded toward Sarah. “Shall we attempt to leash the tiger?”

  Sarah rolled her eyes in obvious disdain. “I can hear you both, you know. You are about as quiet as two magpies fighting over a crust of bread. I would like to go to bed.”

  And he would very much like to join her there. Unfortunately, he had to remain free of any temptation or scandal. He had votes to win, after all. With a dead weight on his shoulders, he held out his arm to her.

  “Shall we?”

  Before settling her hand on his forearm, she gave him a long, appraising look. Warmth from her fingers seeped through his jacket, tingling his flesh and making him very aware of her nearness.

  “Time has a way of sorting things out,” Olivia said, her voice light. “I would not be surprised if all of this washed over in the morning.”

  “Two years has not erased the ton’s memories or their misconceptions,” said Sarah.

  “No,” said Jonathon. “It has not diminished. And despite Olivia’s optimism, the majority of those present will still suspect you come morning light. The key is in proving them wrong.”

  His honesty earned him the slightest glimmer of a smile. “I didn’t do it, you know. I did not taint his wine,” Sarah said.

  Jonathon stilled. “I never thought you did.”

  “Nor I,” Olivia said. “I warrant Lady Vincent is upset over her husband’s illness and sought to take out her frustrations on—”

  “The first person she suspected,” said Sarah. “It is late and I would like to retire.”

  Jonathon started toward the door. Her reputation was lost forever, the good opinions of others mired in a cloud of doubt and skepticism, unless he could produce evidence proclaiming otherwise.

  And he would spend all evening trying to unearth it.

  Chapter Ten

  Self-doubt, anxiety, and utter confusion had a way of wearing on a woman’s soul. While mentally and emotionally draining, they also afflicted Sarah’s physical body, depleting her of the last vestiges of alertness before surrendering to sheer exhaustion.

  With the warm blankets of her bed pulled high over her head and her face burrowed into the soft down of her pillow, she slept soundly. The weight of Lady Vincent’s accusation, the physical presence of an armed footman outside of her bedroom door, protecting everyone from her supposedly dangerous mind—they were gone with the closing of her eyes and the welcome void of slumber…or so she thought.

  “Wake up.” Two hands shook her shoulders, their tightening grip jerking her awake.

  “Olivia?” She blinked against the flame of a solitary candle burning far too close to her head.

  “No, it’s Lucifer,” her friend said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Wake up. There is someone here who needs to speak with you.”

  She propped herself onto her elbows, shielding her eyes from the bright flame. “In the very dead of night?” Save for the lone candle burning alongside her bed, not a single light shone in the room, not even a beam of silver moonlight, the entire space encapsulated in darkness. The fire between their beds had long gone out, the shock of the cold biting at her exposed shoulders. No one was there but her and Olivia. What the devil was going on?

  “Yes,” Olivia continued. “Lord Vincent does not fare well.”

  “How unfortunate.” She groaned. “But not terribly surprising.” She pulled at her covers with every intention of returning to sleep, when Olivia’s hand snatched them out of her grasp.

  “He needs you.”

  And she would like to help him, would love to assist him. But doing so would be disparaging to her reputation.
She could not wander about Barrington unassisted in the dead of night, despite her altruism. She had a guard at her door, for heaven’s sake. People were afraid of her, and she did not need to give them further fuel for their fires of doubt and discord.

  “Me? Perhaps the late hour has you muddled, for you seem to have me confused with a physician. And I most assuredly am not. Last I heard, one was set to arrive in the morning. Until then, we sleep.” She pulled on the covers, only to have them once again torn from her grasp.

  “No, we do not,” Olivia bit out. “Lord Vincent’s condition has worsened.”

  Sarah stretched and covered her mouth to prevent a yawn from escaping. “And how do you know that?”

  “Because I told her.” Jonathon’s voice sounded in the darkness.

  Dear God. Jonathon was here. In her chambers. In the middle of the night. When a guard stood less than fifty feet from her bed. She scrambled with her coverings, once again attempting to pull them around her body. He didn’t need to see her thus. She must look a fright. Not that it should matter. Her appearance was second to the fact that a man—an unmarried man—stood in her bedchamber when an armed guard stood just outside of it. Should the footman discover Jonathon’s presence, her reputation would be beyond salvaging.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” she asked.

  He came out of the shadows, his tall and familiar frame taking shape as he stepped closer to the light.

  “Lord Vincent’s room is not far from my own. I heard the commotion and inquired. He ails and is in need of assistance.”

  “Which his physician will undoubtedly provide for him.” She glanced at the door and back at Jonathon. “You cannot be in here. If you are found—”

  “The footman is asleep. And given his snores, I’d say he has been for quite some time.”

  Her supposed guard had fallen from his post, and in doing so, had allowed entry to a man, and not just any man, but Jonathon. Her Jonathon. The same one who had kissed her not four and twenty hours prior. Her skin warmed.

  “Yes, well, it is late. And…and…it is late.” That ought to have been reason enough for the people in her room to retire, but they continued to stand beside her bed, staring at her with expectation on their faces. Surely they didn’t think she would assist the marquess. He had his physicians at his disposal, not to mention, she had been accused of poisoning the man only hours before.