Marry in Haste

by Anne Gracie

  “Yes, and if she’d told me I looked fat in this I would have had to kill her,” Lily said.

  Rose laughed. “Silly, You don’t look fat. Haven’t you noticed the admiring glances you’ve been getting?”

  Cal had. He was torn between wanting to protect his wife from the vicious rumors and wanting to lock his sisters and niece in a tower. Or at least throwing a blanket over them to stop all those fellows from staring. Lily’s dress was perfectly modest and covered her quite adequately. And yet . . .

  He gritted his teeth. Rose’s and George’s dresses were no better.

  Cal speared an icy glare at a pair of dandified young fellows who looked as though they were nerving themselves to come over and meet the girls. The boys blanched, straightened their cravats and strolled away, trying to look unconcerned.

  One of them glanced back. Cal bared his teeth and the lad recoiled, bumping into a dowager, who gave him a blistering rebuke. Served him right.

  It was just a taste of things to come, Cal thought gloomily. The season was going to be hell.

  “They’re out.” Emm jumped to her feet. The dashing young women emerged from the anteroom with Mrs. Oates. “Now.”

  But just as they released her, Lady Peplowe, Mrs. Braxton and some of their friends took Mrs. Oates’s arm and led her back in.

  “What’s going on?” Emm gave Cal a puzzled glance. Cal shrugged, snagged another glass of champagne from a passing waiter and gave it to his wife.

  “You don’t think they’re—? No.” She sipped thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose—?” And shook her head.

  Cal didn’t know what was going on, but he was pretty sure the nasty young woman was getting an earful from Lady Peplowe and her friends. As for the fashionable young women who’d carried her away so gaily the first time, whatever they’d said to her hadn’t been anything gay or frivolous. She’d emerged from the anteroom looking quite shaken.

  From the corner of his eye, Cal noticed Radcliffe was here. Even as he watched, Radcliffe casually drew Jeremy Oates into their group. Oates, a pushy fellow at the best of times, looked very flattered to be included in such company. So he might. The group included several of the most important and influential men in London and the city.

  As he watched they drifted quietly out onto the balcony.

  Interesting. He would love to hear what they said, but his place was with his wife.

  Ten minutes later Mrs. Oates emerged from the anteroom looking rattled and sulky. She glanced around the room, looking for her husband, he supposed.

  “Finally!” Emm set down her glass for the third time. It was very wearing, waiting, nerving herself for the confrontation, and then having to put it off again. Knowing all the while that people were watching, though pretending not to.

  She would be glad to get it over with.

  But what was this? Lady Peplowe and Mrs. Braxton were escorting Mrs. Oates toward her. The crowd in the middle of the floor parted like the Red Sea.

  Emm rose a little shakily to her feet. What was going on? It wasn’t what she’d planned at all, not a public confrontation like this. She wanted the privacy of the anteroom.

  Nerves fluttered in her stomach. She straightened her shoulders. Get it over now and be done with it. She took several deep breaths—not too many or she’d feel dizzy.

  An expectant hush filled the room. People edged closer, the better to hear and see.

  “Lady Ashendon,” Lady Peplowe said. Her voice was clear and well modulated. It also carried. “This misguided young woman repeated a number of false and nasty stories about you last week at my party. She’s admitted it here tonight.”

  “And at my party, she wishes to apologize,” Mrs. Braxton said. “Don’t you, Mrs. Oates?”

  Mrs. Oates looked trapped and furious and anything but remorseful. She wrenched herself out of the two society matrons’ grip and tried to escape. She moved to the left. A steely line of grim-visaged dowagers stepped forward, blocking her escape. Aunt Agatha and her cronies.

  She turned to the right. Five former Mallard girls linked arms and blocked her way with ferocious gaiety.

  Behind Emm, Rose and Lily chanted softly, “Three duchesses, two marchionesses, five countesses, six viscountesses . . .” And George joined in, “And a dowager with a lorgnette.”

  Emm blinked rapidly. She would not cry, she would not.

  Mrs. Oates looked around the room, looking for support. She found none. “Oh, what’s the fuss about? It was just a bit of harmless fun. Everyone gossips, after all.”

  Nobody said a word.

  “All right, then,” she said pettishly. “I’m very sorry I gossiped about you, Lady Ashendon. My cousin knew it wasn’t true, by the way. Most people did. Stuck up and straitlaced, that’s what we called you.” She turned to Mrs. Braxton. “There, will that do? Can I go now?”

  It was a travesty of an apology.

  Emm itched to slap the nasty creature silly. Her fingers had curled into fists with the effort of not doing so. But she occupied the moral high ground. Dignity and grace in victory was what she must strive for now. It was what she’d taught the girls. We are a family now, and what one family member does affects the reputation of the others.

  Lady Peplowe and Mrs. Braxton were waiting. As was the entire room.

  The apology was blatantly insincere, but indirectly it had cleared Emm’s name. Stuck up and straitlaced, that’s what we called you. Nobody could mistake the petty adolescent jealousy in that.

  Emm stared at Mrs. Oates with her coldest teacherly withering look. After a moment, the woman reddened a little and dropped her gaze.

  It would have to do. Emm gave Lady Peplowe and Mrs. Braxton a stiff nod. They released Mrs. Oates, who flounced away and seized her husband’s arm. “Jeremy, these women are—”

  “Shut up, Fanny. You’re an embarrassment. We’re leaving.”

  Everyone watched as her husband led her from the room, his face beet red and furious. She looked sulky and petulant. “This party was a dead bore anyway,” she said loudly as they exited.

  “I left something in the cloakroom,” Rose said suddenly, and hurried toward the exit.

  A moment later Emm—and everyone in the ballroom—heard Rose say, “Mrs. Oates, a moment please.” Then came the sound of a loud stinging slap followed by a howl of pain and outrage.

  Nobody moved or spoke. An instant later Rose entered the ballroom, head high, looking like the cat that ate the cream. She crossed the ballroom, a young Boadicea, dressed in flames of dusky blue.

  There was a spatter of applause, quickly hushed, and everyone immediately started talking. And trying to suppress smiles.

  Rose rejoined her family.

  “You said I wasn’t allowed to punch her,” George said indignantly. “You made me promise.”

  “I didn’t punch her,” Rose said with dignity. “I slapped her.” And then she grinned like a mischievous urchin. “A good hard one it was too. Did you hear the bitch yell?”

  Emm, caught between laughter and tears, just shook her head.

  Aunt Agatha arrived. “You handled that well, Emmaline.” She turned to Rose. “But you—”

  Rose raised her chin defiantly. “You have something to say to me, Aunt Agatha?”

  Her aunt sniffed. “You, young lady, have possibilities. And that’s all I’m going to say.”

  “That’s a relief,” George murmured.

  “I might be old, but I’m not deaf, Georgiana.”

  “Lily?” She turned the lorgnette on Lily’s dress. They all tensed. “Pretty dress. It suits you.”

  Leaving them all breathless with shock, Aunt Agatha stumped regally away.

  Suddenly it was as if a weight had been lifted off the entire party. The musicians struck up a lively country dance, and in moments the floor was full of laughing, twirling men and women dancing as
if they had not a care in the world.

  Emm, relieved and a little dazed at the way events had turned out, sat for a moment watching her girls dancing, her dear, dear girls. All eight of them—Rose, George, Lily and the girls from Miss Mallard’s, who’d rallied around to support Emm in her hour of need. She would talk to them later, thank them and catch up with their news.

  She sipped champagne and smiled to herself. Three duchesses, two marchionesses, five countesses, six viscountesses . . . She looked across to where Aunt Agatha was laying down the law to some hapless minion. And a dowager with a lorgnette. She smiled at Lady Peplowe and Mrs. Braxton. And some friends she didn’t know she had.

  She felt the warmth of a large hand on her shoulder. And throughout it all, standing quietly in the background, her rock, her love, her husband. He bent over her. “Do you want to dance?”

  She shook her head. “Later. You go on and circulate. I just want to sit for a while.”

  She tried not to be disappointed when he took her advice and moved away.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Take hope from the heart of man and you make him a beast of prey.

  —OUIDA (MARIE LOUISE DE LA RAMÉE)

  Cal found Radcliffe and thanked him for coming. “What did you and your friends say to that harpy’s husband?”

  Radcliffe smiled. “Oates and his foolish wife are dedicated social climbers, and Oates has been angling for a knighthood. But he’s also a businessman to the core. When we pointed out to him that his wife’s so-called harmless gossip could endanger his business prospects as well as the knighthood—well, I’d be surprised if we heard much from her in future. He’s quite ruthless in business. At home . . . ?” He shrugged.

  “Thank you.”

  Radcliffe waved his thanks away. “Not sure it was necessary. The ladies carried it, I think. Those young women, Lady Maldon, Lady Burford, Hampton’s girl and the rest, make up a set she’s long been trying to become part of—the dashing younger set, future leaders of the ton. They took her aside and threatened to ostracize her.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  Radcliffe smiled, sphinxlike, which was all the answer Cal knew he’d get.

  “You put on a good show there, family and friends rallying around, public show of support for your wife. Well done. Surprised your father-in-law didn’t show, though.”

  Cal frowned. “My father-in-law? If you mean my wife’s father, he’s dead.”

  Radcliffe gave him a sharp look. “Sir Humphrey? Dead? I didn’t know that. When did he die?”

  Cal looked at him oddly. “Years ago.”

  “Ah, I thought you meant he’d died in the last week or so—but now I come to think of it, if that were the case your wife wouldn’t be dancing at parties, would she? He’s not dead.”

  Cal glanced over to where his wife was now dancing with some fellow. He lowered his voice. “Are you saying my wife’s father—Sir Humphrey Westwood, of Bucklebury in Berkshire—is alive?”

  Radcliffe nodded. “Became something of a recluse in the last seven or eight years, I believe, but otherwise, as far as I know he’s hale and hearty.”

  Cal’s brain was spinning. “Would you mind not mentioning that to my wife? Or anyone else. Just until I can confirm it.”

  Radcliffe gave an indifferent shrug. “You know me. I’m a vault.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call on you tomorrow.”

  “What for? I can tell you now there’s no news of the assassin fellow. I’m beginning to think we were mistaken about him. I think he’s fled the country.”

  “No, it’s not about him,” Cal said. “I’m coming in to formally resign my commission. You were right. I’m needed here.”

  * * *

  Cal and his family rode out the morning after the Braxton party, a little later than usual, not only because of the party, but because his wife had been in a strange mood—emotional, exhilarated and several times on the verge of tears. And very, very affectionate.

  They’d made love three times during the night, and each time, she’d made love to him, taking the lead, lavishing on him every skill he’d taught her, and a few she was making up as she went along. They were so attuned to each other’s bodies now, the experience was deeper, more intense. And after the triumph of last night, more joyous.

  Cal would have been happy to spend the morning in bed. But she rose bright and happy and eager for her morning ride.

  He’d offered her a different kind of ride and she’d laughed, a joyous peal of delight, and reminded him the girls would be waiting. In this mood she was irresistible, and Cal had crawled out of bed. And was now glad he had.

  It was a glorious morning—crisp, but clear—and to see his wife and sisters and niece laughing and chattering as they picked over the evening’s events made him feel . . . well, he couldn’t name the feeling, but it filled his chest.

  He hadn’t yet told Emmaline of the decision he’d made a few days before, the decision to resign his commission and take up his life here. He’d never really considered the future before. By necessity, he’d lived more or less from day to day. Now . . .

  He looked at his wife on her spirited little gray mare. He had a future now. And a purpose.

  They raced at first, and George won. She was a sight to behold on horseback. His sisters were good, but she . . . She’d mastered the sidesaddle and was now teaching Sultan to jump with it, starting with fallen tree trunks. And whenever she jumped, he caught a glimpse of breeches beneath her smart London habit.

  The girls cantered off, their groom following, and, as had become part of their morning routine, Cal and Emm walked their horses quietly and talked.

  “I didn’t expect to be supported,” she told him. “Not like that. I knew you’d support me.” She reached out to him and they held hands for a minute before the horses parted them. “I’ve been so alone for so long. Surrounded by people, yet essentially on my own, and facing a lifetime alone—and I thought I was content with that, honestly I was. But last night, when people—the girls, the Mallard girls especially, most of whom I thought had forgotten me the moment they left school, and Aunt Agatha, and, oh, everyone—came forward to support me . . . I was un, unwomanned by their generosity, Cal.”

  He nodded. It had renewed his belief in basic human goodness.

  “Cal,” she said abruptly, in quite a different voice. “What is that man doing?” She pointed. “There’s a man crouched in that tree and he’s got a—”

  Several things happened at once. Just as the man in the tree swung a rifle up in an action that curdled Cal’s blood, George, screaming like a banshee, galloped up to the tree and flung something. There was a loud bang, and the man overbalanced. Flailing wildly, he twisted to grab a branch, dropped his rifle and fell to the ground with a loud thud. He didn’t move.

  Cal swung around to his wife. “Emm, are you all right?”

  She was pale but nodded shakily. “Fine. You?”

  Cal breathed again. “He missed, thank God. Stay here, I’ll see to it.” He galloped toward the tree, shouting, “George, stay away!” to his niece who was about to dismount.

  “He’s alive, I think,” she said. “But he doesn’t seem to be able to move.”

  Cal flung himself off his horse and bent over the man. His eyes were open, but he was breathing with difficulty. From the angle at which he lay, Cal thought he might have broken his spine.

  “Joe Gimble?”

  The man tried to nod, couldn’t and grunted. It confirmed Cal’s suspicions. This man was dying. “Keep everyone away, George,” he said quietly, and turned back to Gimble.

  “You’re the Scorpion.”

  There was a short silence, then the man rasped, “Dying, ain’t I?” A bubble of blood came from his mouth.

  “Yes.” There was no point pretending otherwise. Soldiers were realists.

  �
�Wanted you . . . my last kill . . . Bastard,” Gimble gasped. “Lock up . . . wife . . . children . . .”

  “Not me,” Cal said. “I had no part of that.”

  “Jerry . . . told me . . . you . . .”

  Jerry was the name of the drunk who’d died. It all fitted.

  “It wasn’t me. But don’t worry. Your wife and sister-in-law and children—they’ll be released. They will be all right, my word on it.”

  The man swore. “Going to . . . ’merica . . . brother . . .”

  “I know about your brother Bert in America. I’ll make sure they get there.”

  Gimble struggled for breath. There was blood in his mouth. His eyes were desperate. “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Gimble looked at him. “Money in pocket. Give . . . wife?”

  Call felt in the man’s pocket and found a thick roll of notes. He held it so Gimble could see it. “I’ll make sure this goes to your wife and no one else. My word of honor.”

  Again Gimble tried to nod and couldn’t. He was fading fast. “Tell her . . . love . . .” Blood bubbled from his mouth as the man who’d been the Scorpion breathed his last breath.

  There was a long silence, broken only by the breeze in the bushes and the far-distant sound of the city waking up.

  “Is he dead?”

  Cal looked around. It was Emm. She sounded shaken. The girls waited a short distance away, watching with somber eyes. Emm’s horse took a few steps closer.

  He straightened. “Don’t come any closer, Emm, it’s not a pretty sight. I’ll wait here with the body while you and the girls go for help.”

  Her horse took two more steps toward him. “The thing is,” Emm said in an odd voice. She was as pale as parchment. “He didn’t miss after all. I love you, Cal.” And she toppled off her horse in a dead faint.

  Cal leapt to catch her. He lowered her to the ground and, frantic, ripped open her jacket. The shirt beneath was soaked with blood.

  * * *

  Cal ripped open Emm’s blouse. Somebody screamed. Her whole chest and shoulder was covered in blood. He found the source of blood—a shoulder wound—and breathed again. It was serious, but not necessarily fatal, not if she got good, swift medical attention.