“Well,” said Edgar. Then he stopped. Julian looked up at him. “It would seem you have been much abused, Julian. Elspeth, as well. You have been a good friend to me, all these years. A better friend to me than I have been to you, to my shame. I think we must devise some sort of plan to extricate you from this marriage trap.”
“But all will be for naught if Elspeth does not believe in me.”
“We shall have to work on that, as well. The first thing we must do is convince Bettina Quinn that it is not in Caroline’s best interests to announce this engagement so precipitously. Then, perhaps, we might approach Lady Haverford. She’s the one who matters most, after all. If she can be convinced all was not as it seemed in the labyrinth, you might stand a chance.”
“Lady Haverford is the biggest gossip in Bath, Edgar,” Julian said wearily. “I don’t think she cares as much for the truth as for the fun of the on dit.”
“Indeed. But think how much fun the truth might be.”
“What is the truth, Edgar? What could it be other than that Caroline set up that evil scenario to do exactly as she did—trap me into marriage? How do I go about convincing Lady Haverford of that without appearing to be precisely the sort of cad she thinks me already?”
“I shall make it my business to set this right, Julian. I owe you that and more,” said Edgar quietly.
“You owe me nothing, Edgar. Just your friendship.”
“I wish that were so, dear boy,” Edgar said. “More than ever, I wish that were so. Now, I have the glimmering of an idea.…”
* * * *
“Your ape leader sister made a fool of herself in front of all of Bath at the ball last night!” came Rodney’s singsong taunt. Harry swallowed hard, his barley soup sticking in his throat. Elspeth had begged him not to rise to Roderick’s jeering but it was a hard task she set him. “Caroline says everyone in Bath is laughing at Elspeth,” Rodney went on, his own soup forgotten in the joy of the moment. Harry continued manfully to spoon the stuff down, eyes on his bowl, face reddening. “You’re just a coward anyway, Harry. You don’t know how to fight like a man. Julian Thorpe says he’ll teach me how to fence, but you’re too stupid. He thinks you’re a fool just like your sister.”
That did it. Harry was out of his chair in a flash, and pulling Roderick out of his by his shirtfront. The stout cotton held up under the onslaught, but the buttons, unfortunately, did not, yielding with a great ripping sound. Roderick howled in outrage as his feet scrambled to find the floor. He drew back his fist and was about to land a good one, when Harry pinned his cousin’s arms back and fell against him, tumbling them both to the floor.
“Master Roderick! Master ’Arry! You will stop this at once!” came Bessie’s outraged tones. She bravely waded into the fray and fished them out by the collars, one in each hand.
“He attacked me for no reason at all!” wailed Roderick. “He tore all my buttons. I want him to have to sit like a girl and sew them back on!”
“He insulted my sister!” countered Harry, trying to take aim again, but thwarted by the distance at which Bessie held him apart from Roderick. He swung his foot but that missed, too.
“I’m going to march you up to your aunt this minute, young man,” said Bessie, giving Harry a shake and a dark look.
“She’ll make you sew my buttons back on!” Roderick screamed with glee. “You can just sit there all prim and proper in a mobcap and do our mending!”
With a great heave, Harry twisted himself loose and was out of the breakfast room like a shot. He needed to get himself good and lost, at least until Elspeth finally came out of her room and could stick up for him. He could hear Roderick whining loudly for Bessie to let him go, but there were no footsteps following behind him. Harry pounded loudly up the rear stairs, then tiptoed as lightly as he could down the main hallway. All of the bedroom doors were closed. He supposed the ladies were having a lie-in after the ball last night. He paused and still heard no sounds of pursuit. So far so good. He crept down the main staircase to the front hall, pausing on the last stair to listen. All was heavy afternoon silence. Either Roderick had left off with his wailing, or Bessie had pulled him into the kitchen to quiet him down.
Suddenly the doorbell pealed, startling Harry into an undignified jump. He heard a rear door open, and knew he had only seconds to vanish before the footman appeared to answer the bell. The door closest to him was the drawing room, alas, a room he cared little enough for, since every time he went near it, his aunt fussed about how likely he was to break something. He had only broken two things since he’d been here, both silly-looking little porcelain gewgaws that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. When he was the head of his own household, he would have a rule that there would be no silly little gewgaws lurking about, waiting for innocent people to bump into them so that they could break and cause uproar.
He slipped into the drawing room and silently shut the door behind him, hoping the footman had not noticed the movement. He stood with his ear pressed against the thick panel of the door, barely able to heat through it. He heard a mumble of what sounded like male voices. It had to be a toff, or somebody special. Tradesmen and servants were not allowed to use the front door, not ever. That left Harry with no choice but to hide himself with deliberate speed, since any guest would be ensconced in the drawing room to await the beastly presence of Harry’s cousin or aunt. Oh, why couldn’t he have ducked into the dining room instead? No one would be shown into there any time soon. Of course, it was well down the hall, away from the foot of the stairs, so he never could have gotten there in time. He looked carefully around the drawing room for a hiding place, well aware that there were no other doors leading out. Nothing but dreadful little fancy carved bits and pieces of furniture met his eye, all high-legged, curlicued, and insubstantial, not enough to hide a mouse, much less a half-grown miscreant. He bolted for the heavy brocaded curtains, mercifully pulled shut at this hour. Aunt Bettina did not wish to be accused by the landlord of allowing the furnishings to fade in the sun. He found the opening and stepped into the musty, dusty dark. He took a deep breath, determined to hold it as long as possible. If he sneezed, all was lost.
* * * *
Edgar felt his stomach dropping like a stone as he made his way behind the silent footman to Bettina Quinn’s drawing room. He felt almost as sick as Julian, although he hadn’t had so much as a drop to drink. Not yet, anyway. How, precisely, did he think to present this matter to Caroline? Look here, old girl, I’ve had second thoughts. Let’s just forget all this marriage-to-Julian business, shall we? He rather thought she wouldn’t be having any of that. His alternative idea was downright terrifying, but it was the only one that stood a chance.
“If you’ll wait here, sir, I’ll see if Miss Quinn is receiving this morning. Would you care for some refreshment while you wait?” the footman asked with that distant hauteur common to the finer households. These folk could outdo royalty on the haughty scale.
Although rarely loath to grab a free bite wherever he could, Edgar was quite sure he could not, at this time, swallow a morsel. “Thank you, no,” he said, waving negligently, as if he hardly cared when he ate again. The footman nodded and withdrew, closing the door behind him. The note the man carried upstairs to Caroline was brief, but to the point. Must see you immediately. Absolutely urgent. Come downstairs at once, please. Edgar had added the “please” as an afterthought. No point in irritating the easily irritated Caroline any more than necessary. He cast an eye about the gloomy room. The late Lord Ewell had had a heavy, dark taste and the furnishings reflected it. He paced the room, noting out of habit, with a practiced eye, the value of this and that. He could feel the annoyance rising in him as it always did at the unfairness of it all. Why were some blessed with so much, while others made do with so little? Were it not for the negligent largesse of the finer households, which passed out refreshment without regard to cost, there would be days when Edgar simply did not eat at all, and not by choice. His propensity for visi
ting had more to do with a desire for basic sustenance rather than any real enjoyment of these rattlebrains. It did tend to make him a good gossip, however, a talent and perception he nurtured carefully, so as to keep up his entree.
With a sinking feeling he heard hurried footsteps and the turning of the door handle. Didn’t sound like the footman. Perhaps the note had been a little too alarming. Why couldn’t Caroline have been ‘not at home,’ as ladies often were when they just dratted well wanted some peace and quiet?
The great doors opened with a whoosh and slammed shut peremptorily. Must be the lovely Caroline. With an affected nonchalance, Edgar gave a flick to his lace cuff, then turned casually, as if he did not know she was there.
“Oh, there you are, my dear. Nice of you to be so prompt,” he said, with what he hoped was a chilly smile. The ice in his voice was the only thing not affected. He gave her a cool appraisal. If not a disheveled mess, Caroline was certainly not the exquisitely turned-out fashion plate he was used to seeing. She looked, if anything, a bit haggard; a bit—he dared think—older than she was used to appearing. There was a wariness about her, as if she did not know what to expect from him. He arched an eyebrow at her gown—a near cast-off, much mended and faded from its original royal blue, several Seasons gone, a gown she wouldn’t be caught in at a cock fight. Thus stood he, the coconspirator, in her estimation, eh? Not important enough to keep up appearances for.
“Whatever do you want, Edgar?” she spat out. “I’ve a great deal to do today and I’ve no time for your inanities.” She did not ask him to sit. He very nearly sat anyway, just to make a point, then thought better of putting himself in the position of having to look up at her. As it was, she had an inch or so on him. She and most everyone else in the world. Another point that rankled.
“I’ve been doing some difficult thinking, Caroline,” he began, in what he hoped was a reasonable tone. “I find myself highly dissatisfied with the result of our collaboration. When I embarked on this venture with you, I had no idea that my dear Julian was truly so in love with the little country cousin. I supposed he was just being kind in that direction.” He paused at the look of growing incredulity on Caroline’s face, but she did not speak. “As it turns out, the man is quite devastated. I’m sure it has not escaped your notice that he has no desire whatsoever to marry you?”
“I believe you’ve prattled nonsense at me long enough, Mr. Randall. Kindly remove yourself from the premises. Our further—association”—she let the word drip with contempt for their financial arrangements, as if paying him for nefarious services rendered was far beneath her dignity—“need only be conducted by post.”
“I must differ with you, Caroline. While I may be suffering from a woefully laggard attack of conscience, I do consider the matter most serious. I do not think it fair or wise for you to marry a man whose heart is entirely engaged elsewhere.”
“And you expect me to cry off, just like that?” she asked, as if he had suggested she sprout wings and fly. “Give up the match of the Season so that you can rest easy on your pillow?”
“Come now, Caroline,” he began, thinking to reason with her. “Surely you noted his behavior last night. The man is near dead of drink. And what of your cousin? Have you no feeling for her? You must know she loves him. Indeed, I feel rather strongly that they had an arrangement, if only informally and privately between them.”
“As if I could be brought to care a fig about that insipid fool!” Caroline nearly shrieked. “Not a penny to her name, and the only claim to family she has in this world comes from her thin association with me. Why, that little chit is lucky not to be a scullery maid. In fact,” Caroline stopped, a slow smile playing over her face, “I understand that if she doesn’t marry well— something most unlikely at this juncture—she may be reduced to just that.”
Edgar could think of no retort. It was dawning on him that this was a woman of no conscience whatsoever, a true belle dame sans merci. Might as well argue right and wrong with the Devil, himself. Very well, he had one more arrow in his quiver, although it frightened him down to his soul even to contemplate its launch.
“Caroline, regardless of whether or not you can be brought to see what’s right, I feel I cannot be a party to this vile plan any longer. You may consider our—ah—association at an end.” She raised her eyebrow at him, a cool smile playing across her face, as if this were just what she wanted to hear.
“Hear me out, Caroline,” he went on, determined to see it through, whatever the cost to himself. “I am prepared to denounce you, to expose that ugly little scene you played out in Sydney Gardens for the fraud that it was.” He stopped, waiting for his threat to sink in. He was disappointed. If anything, her smile grew broader.
“I see,” she said, her voice almost a purr. “And how would you disguise your part in our little scene?”
“Well, I—” he began. This was the weak point in his plan. Trust Caroline to focus right in on it. Nothing for it but to bluff it out. “I am prepared to confess all,” he stated baldly. He was not quite, actually. This was the part he hadn’t dared think all the way through to its logical conclusion, hoping against hope that Caroline would fold before he got so far. This was, of course, one of the chief reasons he did not play cards often at the clubs, and then only with good friends for low stakes. Couldn’t bluff worth a damn.
“Are you?” she purred. “Are you, indeed? You will, of course, be persona non grata in the better circles all over England. The continent, for that matter. Perhaps you might emigrate to our ungrateful former Colonies. I understand they have great fun there—shooting bears and hoeing crops. Perhaps you could find some out-of-the-way frontier spot where news of this little fiasco has not penetrated. Perhaps. But I doubt it.”
“Caroline, I am well aware of the social risks involved,” he said quickly, hoping to stem her words. She conjured up scenarios to make him shudder. “That should tell you how important I think this matter is. We simply cannot, either of us, allow this farce to go on. Surely you can see that.” He knew he was beginning to sound a bit desperate. Wasn’t sure he’d like a bear up close. “There are dozens of other men you can marry. What about poor Ledbetter? Word has it in the King’s Bath that he is prostrate at the news of your engagement.”
“Mr. Ledbetter is a fool. I could eat him for my breakfast. Besides, he isn’t nearly well enough set up. I intend to be a very expensive wife.” She was purring again. He was getting nowhere. Was he prepared to expose her—and himself—as the evildoers that they were? Never again to grace an elegant ball, a musicale? Unwelcome in every gentlemen’s club the length and breadth of England? Even the public rooms would be off limits for someone who could expect only the Cut Direct from every member of the ton.
“Nevertheless, Caroline, there are others. Why, whatever happened to Lord Rokeby? He was over the moon about you last Season.” It was an exaggeration, to be sure, but there had been something between them, or so the on dit had had it at the time.
“He seemed to find his cattle more interesting than I,” she answered, her voice sour. “In any event, Edgar, this conversation is at an end. The answer to your asinine question is a resounding ‘no.’ I am engaged to Julian Thorpe and I intend to marry him—the sooner the better, since there seem to be so many interested in the wedding not going forward. Everyone will live, I, best of all. Julian has plenty of scratch. He can afford me. I will set up in his London house and he can go to ground in the country. I don’t care whether I ever lay eyes on him after the wedding. Just so long as I have unlimited access to his prodigious accounts. I’d be mad to give all that up, just so you and your conscience can be on speaking terms. Since when have you a conscience anyway? I’ve heard you shred perfectly innocent young ladies with gossip even you knew to be preposterous.”
“And lived to regret it,” Edgar replied. He did, too, at this moment. All his malfeasance come back to haunt him now, on this one thing that mattered so much. “Caroline, I am begging you. Do not do this thi
ng.”
“Show yourself out, Mr. Randall. I wouldn’t wish to trouble the footman. He has more important things to tend to. Like shining my brother’s boots.” Caroline swept out of the room without a backward glance.
Edgar sat down with a heavy thump on one of the few sturdy chairs in the room. It gave off a cloud of dust. What to do? He had shown his hand and it had not a winning card in it. Of course, he could do as he threatened—tell the world the truth. And be on the next boat to the new United States. In steerage with the pigs, swine with swine. Well, no point in staying here. At the very worst, Bettina Quinn would come sailing in and find some reason to flay the skin off him. The thought propelled him from the chair and through the door. There was no one in the hallway, mercifully, to witness his skulking, ignominious retreat. He paused at the door. He had no alternative plan. He’d been a sad excuse for a human being all his life, and today marked his nadir. At least things could not get any worse, he thought, as he reached for the front door handle and gave it a pull.
When he was wrong, he was very wrong indeed.
* * * *
The Viscountess Alderson was startled when the door flew open just as she had touched the large brass doorknocker. She did not like being startled. It put one at a visible disadvantage. She was, however, heartened to note that if she was startled, this-—what was his name?—oh, yes, Edgar Randall, of the Oxfordshire Randalls—mother, a lovely gel, father, an absolute wastrel—was shocked down to his slippers to find her standing in front of him, hand raised as if to strike.
“Oh…er…ah, I declare! If it isn’t Lady Alderson. Good day to you, again, ma’am. Won’t you come in?”
“Are you in Bettina Quinn’s employ as her footman these days, Mr. Randall?” she asked, stepping over the threshold as he scrambled back.
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