Lady Windermere's Lover

by Miranda Neville

  “I was completely overcome by your appearance. My aunt had chosen a new gown for me. While I didn’t know enough to realize that it was overtrimmed and lacked elegance, I knew it did not suit me. And her maid had set my curls with sugar water so my hair felt brittle and uncomfortable. I felt like a complete dowd compared to you, so handsome and debonair. And so unreadable.”

  “Closed off was how you described it. I suppose I was. I think I have been for years. My training for the diplomatic service completed the process, but I shut down my feelings when I lost Beaulieu. I was bitter and angry and resented you because you were the only path back there. I didn’t want a wife.”

  It was an uncomfortable admission but the truth, and one she must have realized by now. “I’m sorry,” he said, clutching his forehead. “I am making a sad hash of trying to persuade you to stay with me. I hoped you would forgive me, that we would forgive each other. I’ll willingly take the lion’s share of the blame.”

  Her reaction surprised him. She sat bolt upright and shrank away as far from him as the narrow bed would allow. “Good,” she said, rejecting his effort to take her hand. “You deserve it.”

  She had tried to put it behind her it and thought she had succeeded. She didn’t want to spoil their Swan Inn idyll with the painful subject. But when he spoke of them forgiving each other, Cynthia needed to explain exactly why she had behaved the way she had. And Damian needed to acknowledge that the lion’s share was more like an elephant’s.

  “Last winter—” she began. Then broke off. She wanted to tell the whole story so that he’d understand. “Last year at Beaulieu, when you suddenly announced you were going to Persia for an unspecified length of time, possibly years, you left me instructions.” He had the grace to look abashed. “Quite a list of them, like improving my appearance and my French. You also told me the house needed refurbishment.” She remembered the way his gaze had swept over the threadbare upholstery and light-streaked curtains, then rested on her ugly, frilly, sage green gown. “You told me to stick with your mother’s original scheme and replace the materials exactly.”

  “Did I?”

  “Naturally I was sympathetic to such a sentimental request, until you spoiled it by implying that I hadn’t the taste to make my own choices.”

  “Are you sure that’s what I meant?”

  She fixed him with a beady eye. “I had no doubt.”

  He capitulated without a fight. “I didn’t trust your taste and I showed no respect for your position as my wife. Even if our tastes didn’t match, you had the right as the mistress of the house to choose your surroundings. I am sorry.” He tried to take her hand again but she shook him off. “I freely admit that I was an unfeeling brute. Let me make it perfectly clear that you performed impeccably in my absence. You are the picture of elegance, a superb French speaker, and a brilliant manager of my household, both here and in the country. The steward at Beaulieu sings your praises by every post, and I have every faith that you will even be able to make Amblethorpe habitable. I also completely understand why you thought it amusing to introduce some very ugly pieces into the house. Please, my dear Cynthia, now you’ve had your revenge, can we get rid of the pink settee and the dead birds in the hall? Next time you commit fraud in a good cause, buy a Titian or a set of Hepplewhite chairs.”

  “You find it amusing.”

  “Don’t you? As revenge goes, it’s a witty one. That explains the furnishings, but it’s mere mischief. Nothing like taking up with Julian.” The humor faded from his eyes. “Now that I know you, it surprises me you’d even consider an affair. Not only are you the kindest and most forgiving lady in the world, you are a woman of principle.”

  She swallowed hard. She had tried to forget the pain, to accept her erring husband back without further recriminations. She feared that if he made light of her feelings now he would be beyond pardon and there could be no happy future.

  “For weeks I refused to have anything to do with Julian. I did my best to be a faithful and obedient wife.” Tears gathered, as they often did when she remembered the long awaited letter, responding to several of hers, happy ones during her pregnancy and the heartbroken conclusion. She got down from the bed to find a handkerchief.

  Clutching the linen square like a lifeline, she stood in her nightgown and bare feet at the foot of the bed. Damian stared back at her with his blankest expression.

  “I would never have encouraged Julian had it not been for your cruel indifference to losing our child.”

  “You were with child?” he said, his voice hoarse with disbelief. He jumped out of bed and took her by the elbows.

  Her immediate thought was that he’d forgotten an event that meant so little to him. “Our marital duties were almost immediately rewarded,” she said.

  “You said nothing of it.”

  “I can assure you it wasn’t a secret. Do you expect me to believe half a dozen letters went astray?”

  “It’s possible. Between the weather and the French, communications in the Mediterranean were troublesome last year.” He shook his head and his hands tightened to the brink of hurting her arms. “Didn’t you guess when I said nothing in response to your news?”

  “But you did. You dismissed my miscarriage in two short sentences.” All her bitterness and grief welled up. “I remember the words. How could I forget them? I am sorry to hear of your indisposition. You must be more careful of your health. Yours etc. Windermere.”

  His forehead creased as he appeared to search his memory. “You had a cold.” This time his grip did hurt her and she pulled away. “You were caught in the rain walking home from church. You told me you were susceptible to chills.” He spoke like a man in a daze. “I had forgotten, but now it comes back to me.”

  The wet walk had happened soon after he sailed and the report of a minor chill had taken up a major portion of her first dutiful letter to her husband, because she couldn’t think of anything else to write. She hadn’t thought of it since.

  “I never knew you were with child,” he said slowly, as though unable to assimilate the news. “You came to London to consult a doctor.”

  “He didn’t make any difference. I lost the baby. I wanted the child so badly because I had nobody else.” She buried her face in her hands and felt scalding tears soak her fingers. “And all these months I’ve resented you for nothing,” she cried before being overcome by sobs.

  He put his arms around her and let her weep out her misery and remorse. Especially the latter. The grief was an old story, still present but dulled by endurance and the passage of time. In the here and now she had to face the fact that she’d taken revenge and almost betrayed her vows in retaliation for an injury that had never existed. Worst of all, she might have lost the chance of winning her husband’s love.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffing as the crying subsided. He continued to hold her, rubbing her back. “I’m so sorry,” she said, pulling away and retreating to the window. She saw the inn yard through a blur and wiped her eyes. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Forgive you! What do I have to forgive? I may be innocent of this particular sin of callousness but there are plenty more. Let’s not speak of your fault. I am sorry that you went through the experience alone and without comfort. Was it very bad?”

  Believing in his regret, she didn’t want to talk about it further. The details were painful and not such as a man could understand, or want to hear about. “I recovered,” she said, and started to look for her clothes. She felt cold and strange and uncertain of her feelings now that the lump of resentment she’d carried for months had dissolved. “Are we going back to town this afternoon?”

  “Unless you want to stay here another night.”

  “It’s a small inn and not very comfortable.”

  “I like it here,” he said. “But the decision is yours. What about Castleton?”

  “I was only going there because I was angry. They don’t expect me. I’d prefer to go back to town. I left without giving t
he servants their Christmas boxes.”

  This raised a smile. “That’s my little philanthropist. I’ll summon your maid.”

  Chapter 23

  That Damian would never have been as cruel in his response as Cynthia had believed was cold comfort. Suppose he had received the report of her pregnancy. What would he have done?

  The truth was, he wouldn’t have much cared. Consumed by work so that he could forget the wife he had so rashly married, the thought of a child would have been another unwelcome burden. And an infant Chorley-Lewis, son or daughter, would be a victory for Joseph Chorley, who had blackmailed him into marriage so that he could have connections to the aristocracy. Eventually Damian would want an heir, but in an undisclosed, theoretical future that had little to do with his present concerns.

  The intensity of her grief surprised him at first. He tried to see it from a woman’s point of view. From Cynthia’s. He’d left her alone, married but not really wed. A child would have given her the affection she certainly couldn’t expect from her husband, and an object for her own devotion. He remembered her saying vis-à-vis her charitable endeavors that women loved their children even if they hated the father.

  Now that he knew the truth he could think of a dozen hints she’d dropped that had gone over his head. While he wished he had understood sooner, perhaps it was for the best. Loving her as he did, he could now share her disappointment and grief. That he had caused her pain wrenched his guts, and the loss of a child who had barely existed hurt him too, in retrospect. Family duty and the future of the Lewises mattered a little. Having children, a real family, with Cynthia mattered a lot.

  On the journey to London significant conversation hadn’t been possible in the presence of the maid. At Windermere House he’d told her about the Falleron collection and she had laughed at his dilemma, ordered to negotiate with Julian when he believed him to be her lover. He’d seen precious few of her smiles since her revelation. Tense and subdued, he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

  He conceived a plan: Take her to Beaulieu where their marriage had begun so badly and make a fresh start; shower her with gifts to celebrate the season; get her naked as much as possible. And, above all, tell her how much he loved her and convince her it was true.

  He set off the next day to the Foreign Office to break the bad news to the foreign secretary. He had failed to persuade Denford to let go of the Falleron collection and would no longer make the attempt.

  On the way to see if Grenville could give him an audience, he hesitated at the door to Radcliffe’s rooms and grimaced. Damian wasn’t merely reluctant to deliver unwelcome news. He didn’t want to see Radcliffe, or hear what he had to say, or share his thoughts with him. Gritting his teeth and remembering all he owed Sir Richard, he entered and prayed his mentor wasn’t in.

  Of course he was.

  He heard Damian’s resignation with his usual calm, then regarded his protégé over steepled fingers with a pale, unblinking stare.

  “You’ve disappointed me, Damian.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but in this case I must decide what is best.”

  Sir Richard continued to look inscrutable, but for some reason Damian didn’t think he was particularly upset. Or perhaps the news didn’t surprise him. “Lady Windermere failed to come through for us.”

  “My wife? What has she to do with it?”

  “I rather thought everything, since it is her liaison with Denford that caused your regrettable decision.”

  “Lady Windermere,” Damian said, “is not the Duke of Denford’s lover.”

  “I’m sure you know best, dear boy, but it seems a waste of a promising relationship. I had a feeling she wasn’t going to be helpful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Merely that I spoke to her about her duty to your future career and the ways she could help. One way, in particular. She became quite provincial at my very reasonable suggestion. Apparently you can take a young woman out of Birmingham, but you can’t polish base metal. Did she complain to you?”

  “She didn’t mention the matter.” His head spun. Bad enough that Radcliffe suggested Damian pimp his wife. Treating Cynthia to the same insult made him absolutely furious. He clenched his hands together and summoned every ounce of control he possessed. He had never in his life felt less diplomatic.

  “I am glad she had that much tact, at least. I confess I thought I’d done rather well by you. She’s a pretty little thing with a good deal of charm. With time, experience, and a little less Birmingham she can still be quite an asset.”

  Damian fastened on one part of this maddening speech. “What had you to do with my marriage?”

  “Didn’t you know? You could say I arranged the whole thing. I knew you wanted to gain back your mother’s estate and I knew Chorley was looking for a title in the family. So I suggested that he acquire it as his niece’s dowry. No need to thank me. I’m always pleased to help.”

  There wasn’t any point reminding Radcliffe that he’d been ready to buy Beaulieu when Chorley bought it from under his nose and blackmailed him into an alliance. Rather he ought to thank him for bringing him Cynthia. He refused to do that either.

  Perhaps Radcliffe had once been his friend. Or he might have used Damian entirely for his own ends. Though Damian would wager on the latter, it all came to the same. His affection for Sir Richard was at an end, as was any obligation to the man.

  “Thank you for clearing that up, sir. I always like to know where I stand. I’m sorry about the Denford business but I’m sure you understand.”

  Sir Richard nodded. “Can’t be helped. We’ll have to think of something else.”

  “Please convey my thanks to Lady Belinda for a most delightful entertainment on Christmas Day. Lady Windermere and I look forward to seeing you soon.”

  Sir Richard Radcliffe had taught him well. He could lie like a diplomat and never let his opponent see him sweat. He left the room with a straight back, an insouciant air, and a sour stomach that the man he’d respected for so long had turned out to be a cold-blooded manipulator.

  He’d admired Radcliffe’s ruthlessness, he realized, but perhaps Julian had been right when he equated patriotism with scoundrelry. At least in some cases.

  Glancing at the Morning Post while he waited in an anteroom to the foreign secretary’s office, he was joined by a familiar figure.

  “Good morning, my lord,” John Ryland said.

  “How are you, Ryland?” It was hard to believe that only two weeks had passed since they’d met. It seemed like another era.

  “You must be satisfied with the outcome of the affair.”

  He had no idea what he meant and settled for replying “Indeed” with a hint of a question that Ryland picked up.

  “But of course, you haven’t heard.”

  “If the news is recent, I know nothing. I returned this morning from a brief trip out of London.”

  “The foreign secretary heard on Christmas Day that Prince Heinrich of Alt-Brandenburg has seen the wisdom of an alliance with Britain and signed the treaty.”

  “Without the pictures?”

  “I’m sure he would still be pleased to buy them from the Duke of Denford directly, though perhaps not at the price His Majesty’s government would have offered.”

  “When did this happen?” Damian asked with a mixture of irritation and curiosity. “It takes a week or two for dispatches to come from Germany. Whatever argument convinced him must have been applied some time ago.”

  “You likely feel you were withdrawn from Persia unnecessarily. The matter was so vital we needed several contingency plans. We are sorry you were inconvenienced.”

  Ryland wasn’t remotely sorry, and neither was Damian, though not for the same reason. The whole business with Julian and the bloody pictures that he hoped never to hear of again had been a nuisance. But he couldn’t regret coming back to England. A few weeks longer and Cynthia might have succumbed to Denford’s seduction.

  “Thank you for tell
ing me. I had come to report my lack of progress, but there is no reason now for me to take up Lord Grenville’s time.”

  Ryland frowned. “I don’t need to tell you to keep this to yourself, my lord. Since you were involved I thought you should know the outcome, but it’s not common knowledge yet, by any means.”

  Damian felt a spurt of irritation at the knotted intricacies of his business. Once he would have been idealistic enough to believe discretion was required by a further move in the diplomatic chess game. Sadly, it was more likely because some official in some department was guarding his ground against a rival. He was mildly intrigued that Radcliffe hadn’t been told, or perhaps he had and elected not to tell Damian so he could scold him anyway. It wasn’t important enough to waste time worrying about it.

  Then he smiled. He’d forgotten to confess to Radcliffe that he had changed his mind about the Spitalfields Act. As Radcliffe, and Chorley too, would discover when the matter came up in Parliament, they hadn’t got themselves the bargain they hoped for when they purchased the Earl of Windermere.

  Lady Windermere, on the other hand, would be pleased. The gentlemen could go hang. It would be another gift for her on their second honeymoon.

  The sight of the Duke of Denford coming down the steps of Windermere House dowsed his sparkling mood. Denford waited for him to alight from the carriage and seized him by the arm.

  “What do you want?” Damian asked.

  “I was looking for Cynthia?” Julian asked without a trace of urbanity.

  She must have refused to see him, thank God. “If she isn’t at home to you, the polite thing to do is leave.”

  “She is not at home to anyone. I am very afraid that she’s been abducted.”

  Damian stared at him. “You’re mad!”

  “God, I really hope so. I’d like to think this note I received ten minutes ago, demanding the Falleron collection in exchange for her safety, was nothing but a remarkably bad joke.”