Candice Hern

by The Regency Rakes Trilogy

Olivia stared at Mary, her brows raised in helpless astonishment, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

  "Go, Olivia. Please ... just go."

  Olivia's hand flew to her mouth and her face crumbled. She turned and walked away, closing the door behind her.

  Mary fell back against the closed door and gazed about the room. When her eyes reached the large, curtained bed she was tempted to throw herself upon it and give in to the despair she had kept under tight restraint for the past half hour. But not yet. Not now. She must not think just now. She must act. She would think later.

  She rang for her maid and began to pull dresses out of the wardrobe. If only she had not brought so many things! But then, she had packed enough to get her through a stay at Pemworth as well as a short bridal journey to the Lake Country. Well, she would just have to pack it all. She meant to leave nothing behind. When Sally arrived and saw what was going on, she gave a shriek and flew to Mary's side.

  "What... what..."

  "Help me, Sally. We must pack up everything. Quickly, now."

  "B-but... I-I don't understand, my lady," Sally said, almost in tears. "Are we leaving Pemworth?"

  "Yes. Now, please, help me."

  "But the ... the w-wedding?" Sally's voice was tremulous and confused.

  "There will be no wedding." Mary stopped her frantic activity, looked up, and placed a hand against her cheek, as if suddenly startled by the realization. It was true. There would be no wedding. But she must not think about that now. There was no time to think now. She suddenly felt very cold and began to shiver uncontrollably. She wrapped her arms tightly about her. "Sally," she said, fixing her maid with a steely glare,"you must say nothing about this to anyone. I find that I... that I cannot go through with the wedding."

  "Oh, my lady!" Sally grabbed a woolen shawl that had been tossed on the bed and gently draped it around Mary's trembling shoulders.

  "But I do not want to cause a scene," Mary said, gratefully accepting the shawl and pulling it tightly against her breast. "So we must be circumspect—quiet—about our plans. You must help me to pack, but somehow—I do not know how, but somehow—you must not let any of the other servants know what we are about. I want no gossip belowstairs that I am planning to leave. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, my lady." Sally's voice was little more than a whisper, and she kept her eyes lowered.

  "First, you must get a message—secretly, mind you—to John Coachman. He must have our carriage ready to depart before dawn. I know I can count on his, and your, discretion."

  "Yes, my lady."

  So the two women made plans to escape Pemworth without alerting the staff or the family. Sally and John Coachman, both loyal and trusted servants, were stoic but cooperative in organizing a quick and quiet departure. Sally had kept well-meaning family members away from Mary, carrying on with the story of her indisposition as she peeked her head through a crack in the door, or stepped outside in the corridor to speak softly with the visitor. Olivia had returned twice, the marchioness had stopped by, as had Charlotte. A footman had brought a dinner tray. There had even been a note from Jack, wrapped around one of the garden roses, which Mary had consigned to the fire, unread.

  Somehow, she had gotten through the long evening. Sally had at first tried to get her to lie down and rest while she completed all the packing, but Mary needed activity to keep her mind blank. Sally seemed to understand, and they worked side by side, speaking only of inconsequential matters. The packing, which had taken days to organize two weeks before, was completed in hours.

  There was a hidden service stairway near Mary's suite at the far end of the west wing, so there was no need to carry trunks and bandboxes down the long corridor. Long after the family and guests had gone to bed, John Coachman carried all the baggage downstairs himself—thank God he was such a big, strong fellow—and loaded the carriage, which he had parked in a little used lane far away from the stables.

  The carriage pulled away slowly and quietly an hour or so before dawn. Mary sat alone inside—she had allowed herself only a moment of guilt when she had asked Sally to sit up front with John—and watched Pemworth Hall, shimmering pink in the moonlight, disappear from her sight. Forever. This beautiful place was not to be her home after all.

  She jerked the heavy velvet curtain across the window and kicked at the opposite squab with such force that she yelped with pain. A single tear trickled down her cheek that she angrily brushed away. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have let her guard down so thoroughly? Her father had been right.

  "Whatever made you imagine," he had said, "that you could hold a man's interest for any reason other than money?"

  Of course, he was right. She had known all along that he had been right. How could she have forgotten the basic truth that had been drilled into her head for most of her life: she was ugly, worthless, and of no use to anyone. Damn Jack for making her forget that! And damn him for making a fool of her—or, more accurately, for allowing her to make a fool of herself. She pounded her fist against the velvet squab.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  Mary began to untie the ribbon of her bonnet, but her fingers could not seem to function properly, and the ribbon became hopelessly tangled. Swearing with creative fluency, she tugged at the thing until it ripped apart, and she flung the bonnet onto the seat opposite. She knew her departure—her escape—would cause a momentary scandal. She regretted leaving the marchioness and Charlotte without a word, and harbored a terrible guilt for abandoning Olivia. But none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered at the moment was the need to get away. All right, to run away. However it was expressed, she had to leave. Knowing the truth of Jack's motives, how he had lied to her and manipulated her, made it impossible for her to remain at Pemworth. She could not and would not face him. There was no longer any question of marrying him. That was impossible now, despite what she had felt for him.

  Had felt? Did she no longer love him? Against all her best intentions, she had opened the fortress she had carefully constructed around her heart—stupid, stupid woman!—and allowed him inside. Could she cast him out so easily and close the gates tightly once again? Mary angrily clawed at her cheeks to brush away the tears that now flowed freely. Yes, she could cast him out and she would, if it took her a lifetime to do so. She could never trust him again, so it should be easy never to love him.

  How much blame, though, could she rightly assign to Jack? He had been honest with her from the start about his inability to offer love. He had never spoken to her of love. It was her own foolish imagination that had led her to believe that he might love her. His passionate kisses had been only that: physical passion, lust, even, but not lovemaking. What a fool she had been!

  He had promised her nothing but security and companionship, and she accepted him on those terms. She had never imagined, though, that her fortune had anything to do with it. She and Jack had never discussed money. How did he even know about her fortune, before speaking to Mr. Fleming?

  But, wait a minute. Of course! No wonder he had rejected so many of the otherwise unexceptionable young women on Mary's list of candidates—like Miss Langley-Howe, or Lady Daphne Hewitt. They brought very unimpressive fortunes. Whereas others, like Miss Carstairs—the very rich Miss Carstairs—had been prime candidates. If he had gone to the trouble to investigate their circumstances, he must surely have investigated hers as well. No wonder he had so suddenly turned his attentions to her. The scoundrel! He had deliberately set out to make a fool of her, convincing her she wasn't plain and worthless, making her feel strong and confident, when all he really wanted was her fortune. Her damnable fortune. It was just like the last time, with Peter.

  Her father was right.

  How mortifying!

  But it was her own fault. If she had not been so susceptible to Jack's charm, so willing to believe him, so quick to accept his offer, perhaps he would have sought out someone else—he might have renewed his attentions to Miss Carstairs, for example—and then
she would not now be forced to endure her current humiliation. Mary rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying to stop the tears that would not be stopped. She hated herself for such weakness—for her tears, for her shame, for her embarrassment, for letting herself forget who and what she was. Especially for that. She hated herself for forgetting.

  She would not forget again.

  Chapter 18

  "Have you seen Mary this morning, Mrs. Bannister?" Jack loaded his plate with shirred eggs, ham cakes, muffins, and marmalade and then sat down at the breakfast table next to Emily, Lady Bradleigh. "I have been concerned about her. I hope she is feeling better today." He reached across Lord Sedgewick, on his left, for the salt cellar.

  "No, my lord," Mrs. Bannister replied. "I have not seen her yet. I knocked early this morning, but there was no reply so I assumed she was still asleep. I did not wish to disturb her."

  "Poor thing," his mother said from the other end of the table. "I fear we have overtaxed her these last weeks. We must indulge her today so she will be rested for the wedding tomorrow."

  Emily pushed her plate away and looked at Jack. "Shall I go see if she is all right?"

  Jack was about to speak when Mrs. Bannister interrupted. "No, please," she said. "Let me go." She stood up quickly and pushed her chair back into place. Nodding toward Emily, she said, "You should not be climbing up and down the stairs so often, my lady."

  Emily gave a shy chuckle, and her husband put his arm gently around her shoulder. "Thank you, Mrs. Bannister," Lord Bradleigh said. He turned to smile warmly at his wife. "I am glad someone else is here to remind you to be careful, my dear."

  "I'll just run up and see how she is feeling, my lord," Mrs. Bannister said to Jack.

  "Be sure to ring if she would like a tray in her room," his mother called out as Mrs. Bannister left the breakfast room.

  General conversation continued, the informal ball planned for that evening and the wedding on the following morning among the most popular topics of discussion. Soon, several of the earlier arrivals departed, leaving only a small group at table. During a momentary lull in the conversation, the marchioness turned her attention to Jack. "My dear," she said, "I believe you must have exhausted Mary with all those long walks along the headlands. I do not believe she is used to such exertion."

  "She did not appear to be overexerted, Mama," Jack said. He cast an amused glance at Sedgewick, who was grinning broadly as he stared down at his plate.

  "Nevertheless," his mother continued, ignoring the sniggering of the various gentlemen, "she has become overtired. I suspect she would not be willing to admit to you that she was not up to all that tramping about. She would not wish to appear. .. weak in your eyes."

  "Really, Mama," Jack said, still smiling, "I cannot imagine that Mary is afraid to be honest with me on such a minor point. She is ... Good Lord!"

  Mrs. Bannister stood in the doorway in the breakfast room, white-faced and wide-eyed.

  Oh, my God. Mary!

  Jack jumped up, knocking his chair over, and moved quickly to the stricken woman's side. "What is it? What has happened?"

  Mrs. Bannister stared at him mutely, her lips slightly parted and trembling. She seemed hesitant to speak. Finally, she tore her pleading eyes from him and glanced about the suddenly silent room, briefly meeting the anxious eyes of one after another of the assembled guests. It occurred to Jack that perhaps she wanted to speak to him privately, but he was too anxious to hear what she had to say to be concerned with the others. Besides, they were all family or friends, and if something had happened to Mary ...

  Jack wanted to shake the woman by the shoulders. "Mrs. Bannister?" he prompted in a tightly controlled voice.

  When her eyes returned to his, he was reminded of a frightened rabbit. "She's gone," she said softly.

  "What?" Jack said. "What do you mean she's gone? Out for an early walk, perhaps?"

  "No, my lord," Mrs. Bannister replied, her lower lip quivering. "She has left Pemworth. She's gone." Suddenly, she buried her face in her hands as she dissolved into tears. The marchioness was quickly at her side, comforting the distraught woman while casting a puzzled look at Jack.

  Jack stood immobilized with shock, gaping at Mrs. Bannister. No, it couldn't be true. He would not believe it. Mary had not left him. She would never betray him like that. Not Mary.

  "Tell us what has happened," his mother said while leading Mrs. Bannister to a chair.

  "I do not know what has happened!" Mrs. Bannister wailed. "All I know is that Mary's rooms are empty, her luggage is gone, and her maid is nowhere to be found." Realizing, apparently, that she had been almost shrieking, she lowered her voice when she continued. "She has gone. That is all I know."

  Mrs. Bannister looked questioningly at Jack, but he looked away and said nothing. His stomach seized up into a knot. So, it was true. He did not want to believe it, but it appeared to be true. He clenched his back teeth tightly together to keep himself from shouting. She had left him after all. Mary had left him.

  Bloody hell!

  Numb with fury, Jack watched as Edward Maitland rose from the table and signaled a footman to his side. "Check belowstairs," Edward told the young man, "and find out what is known about Lady Mary's departure. Did anyone speak with her maid? What about her coachman?" He turned to look at Mrs. Bannister. "She brought her own carriage, did she not?" When Mrs. Bannister nodded, he turned back to the footman. "Find out if her carriage is gone. And if so, when it left."

  "Yes, sir." The footman, looking anxious and excited, quickly departed.

  Jack had not stirred from his place near the door. He could not seem to move, his body stiff with suppressed emotion, anguish battling with rage for control. Though he saw and heard all the flurry of activity that went on about him, he was unable to focus on anything beyond a single thought.

  She had left him. She had actually left him. Mary had left him.

  His hands slowly balled into fists.

  "I do not understand," Emily said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Why would Mary have left Pemworth? You must have been the last to see her, Mrs. Bannister. Did she say anything to you? Was she—" she cast a quick glance at Jack—"unhappy?"

  Mrs. Bannister, more composed now, looked at Emily and narrowed her eyes in thought. "She was certainly not herself when we spoke yesterday afternoon," she said. "She was sharp and ... well, uncommonly rude. It was not at all like Mary. I suppose she might have been upset about something. I thought she might have been upset with me, for she had never spoken to me so harshly before. But she claimed to be unwell, and I assumed that accounted for her odd behavior."

  The butler, Grimes, entered the breakfast room and stood before Jack, clearing his throat nervously. When Jack ignored him, Grimes turned to the marchioness. "Lady Mary's carriage and horses are not in the stables, my lady," he said. "Her coachman and his things are also gone. One of the stable boys heard a noise in the middle of the night, but did not investigate. Her maid has also disappeared. Her case and extra clothing are gone from the room she had shared with Betsy. No one can recall seeing her at all last evening."

  "Thank you, Grimes," the marchioness said. She then signaled for him and the remaining footman to leave. She looked sharply at Jack when the servants had departed. "So," she said. "Mary has left. We must say something, Jack, to the other guests. I assume you are planning to go after her?" She breathed a ragged sigh. "I suppose we must postpone the wedding ..."

  "God damn it!" Jack exploded, no longer able to contain his fury. She had done it. She had really left him. It had happened again. "God damn it!" He tightened one fist, brought it up to his chest, then slammed it furiously against the wall. A small painting jumped from its hook to land with a loud crash upon the sideboard, knocking over the large coffee urn, which in turn sent serving dishes bobbling and smashing one after the other to the floor. "God damn it!" Jack shouted, oblivious to the damage as he pounded the wall again and again until it cracked, and bits of plaster began to
crumble to the floor.

  "Jack!"

  Raising his fist for another blow, Jack was suddenly surrounded by Edward, Bradleigh, and Sedgewick, each trying to restrain him, immobilizing his arms, while the women scurried to the other side of the room, away from his uncontrolled rage. Jack stopped fighting his captors when he happened to catch his mother's eye, overwhelmed momentarily by the pain and fear he read there. Suddenly realizing he had made a spectacle of himself—and not much caring—Jack attempted to rein in his fury.

  God damn her. She had taken him for a fool, just as Suzanne had. He had trusted her, and she had bolted. Probably discovered he was nearly bankrupt and no longer good enough for her. Probably even now seeking out a fatter goose to pluck. God damn her. God damn her!

  He roughly shrugged off the restraining arms and hands of this friends and looked down with disgust at the mess of smashed porcelain, crumbled plaster, and food littering the floor. Coffee dribbled down the front of the sideboard from the overturned urn. "It's all right," he said. "It's all right. Let me go."

  Sedgewick and Bradleigh backed away warily. His uncle stayed close at his side. Jack looked at the women, standing together at the other end of the room, and met the steely glare of Emily. Without unlocking her eyes from his, she strode forward slowly and somewhat awkwardly. Her eyes narrowed as she stood before him, her arms resting on her swollen belly.

  "What did you do to Mary?" she said in an accusing tone. "What did you say to her? What did—"

  "I?" Jack shouted. "What did I do? Dammit, Emily, I have done nothing but..." But love her, he had almost said. "Nothing but treat her with kindness and respect and, God help me, trust. I never—"

  "But you must have done something! She was so happy. She wanted this marriage. She loved you—"

  "Ha!" Jack exclaimed. "Loved me? Apparently not, my dear. She—"

  "I don't care what you say, Jack!" Emily's voice had risen to a shout. "She was happy, I tell you, and something has happened. I don't know what, but—"