by Darcie Wilde
When he’d heard that Terrance Valloy was planning on marrying Mrs. Wakefield, Anthony had felt quite fortunate. Valloy had a reputation as a sound businessman. He would not allow his wife to keep Genevieve unmarried simply as a sop to her own vanity, especially when there was an eminently eligible match on offer. All he had to do was wait.
And Anthony did wait. He waited for weeks. Those weeks stretched out into the months of an utterly interminable season. Still, he’d forced himself to be patient. The gossip he overheard indicated that Valloy had decided he’d given Mrs. Wakefield enough time to hide behind her mourning veil. Valloy told the men at his club it was time to close the affair. Anthony moved through his days confident that his period of suspense was nearly at an end.
Thus, it had come as a complete shock when Genevieve had written to tell him that her sister would in no way consent to the marriage. Worse, Genevieve told him Mrs. Wakefield declared she would not marry Mr. Valloy unless he agreed ahead of time not to sanction Miss Morehouse’s marriage.
Disbelief had rooted him to the ground. Anger had nearly caused him to tear the letter in two before he’d finished reading it. Fortunately, his mind was too closely honed by business to permit him to discard any document before he’d thoroughly examined it. That was when he learned afresh that he had been right about his Genevieve. Her sister had not yet been able to eradicate her core of proper sense and feeling. She wrote that she wanted to marry him. She yearned to escape her sister’s influence and put herself under the secure guidance that the right sort of husband could provide. Not that she’d put it that way, but he nonetheless knew it to be the truth. Had he not been so certain, he never would have agreed to the elopement.
Of course Mrs. Wakefield would attempt to interfere. He had attempted to plan for each contingency. He endorsed Miss Morehouse’s notion of having her uncle (another member of the family who, despite all, maintained a sliver of good sense) meet them at the Three Swans. This not only made her attachment plain, but revealed a pleasing note of good sense. It also, not incidentally, saved him from having to manage an inconvenient, expensive, and tedious journey to Gretna. He did not like that she fabricated the tale of a bastard on the way. It did not suit his notion of his own character. However, if it overcame the old man’s arguments, then it served its purpose and it was certainly no worse than any lie told upon the exchange in the name of business.
At first, everything had gone smoothly. Miss Morehouse had slipped away from her house and her escort. The old dame playing chaperone had assisted to the best of her strictly limited abilities. He would pension her off generously once the wedding was finalized. Then had come the weather and the delays on the road. Still, he’d thought nothing of it. All had seemed perfectly in hand.
Until they’d reached the inn and found that Mrs. Wakefield and her bullyboy had gotten there first.
Of course he’d retreated. He was a Dickenson. He could not stay and brawl in a public house, especially not with that unnatural bitch looking on and enjoying every minute of it. But his retreat was purely strategic. He’d circled back once daylight arrived. His idea had been to bribe one of the servants to get word to Genevieve of his presence. The idea of an unplanned flight to Gretna went against every fiber of his being, but if it got Miss Morehouse away from her sister, it would all be worth it.
That was how he had come to be in the yard and to hear the servants talking of the impromptu marriage taking place in the parlor. The application of a half-a-crown had secured the names of the couple. Mrs. Wakefield was not only favoring her bullyboy. She was marrying him.
This time Dickenson did retreat. He spent the entire cold, inconvenient drive back to town lost in thought, and by the time he arrived at his own door, he had his plan. It would be expensive. He would have to proceed with great care, but the knowledge that Mrs. Wakefield, now Mrs. Rayburn, still held lovely, innocent Genevieve drove him forward. She would not keep possession of his rightful bride, and she certainly would not be allowed to boast that she’d bested a Dickenson. He would destroy her for the very attempt. Fortunately, she herself provided all the means necessary for him to do just that. He did not even need to attack her directly.
What he did need to do was speak with Terrance Valloy.
Anthony arrived at the Exchange Club in Cornhill Street at lunchtime. A few inquiries had revealed that it was Valloy’s regular habit to dine there in peace before returning to the riot of the Royal Exchange or Lloyd’s trading rooms. A quiet word with one of the waiters allowed Dickenson to determine the man who sat alone at the table by the window, entirely concealed by his copy of the Times was the one he sought.
He made his way through the mostly empty room to the windows.
“Mr. Valloy? My name is Dickenson.”
Valloy turned one corner of the paper down. He was a formidable man with a lined face and dark hair liberally streaked with iron gray. There was a great deal of iron in his cold eyes as well. Those eyes raked across Anthony, assessing each detail of his appearance.
It was only when this process was complete that Valloy closed the paper. “Ah yes,” he said, gesturing for the waiter to bring another chair so Anthony could sit. “I’ve heard your name about the exchange.” Valloy gestured to the wine carafe and coffeepot. Anthony declined both and settled into the chair. “What can I do for you?” asked Valloy.
“I’ve no wish to waste your time,” said Anthony. “Therefore, I shall come straight to my point. You are, I believe, acquainted with the family of Octavian Morehouse?”
“What business might that be of yours?” Valloy spoke mildly. Clearly, he was not a man who shouted, or needed to.
“Forgive me. I would have hoped for a more proper way to broach such a private subject, but circumstances compel this direct approach.”
“I do not understand you, sir.” Again, the words were spoken with deceptive mildness. His black eyes though, were hard as flint.
“You intend, I believe, to marry Mrs. Wakefield.”
“Once more, I ask what business is this of yours?”
“I am sorry to inform you that you will shortly find she has formed a mésalliance.”
Valloy’s hard eyes glittered. “You will explain yourself, Mr. Dickenson, or you will leave.”
In as clear a fashion as he could manage, Dickenson laid out the situation. It was difficult, because each word reminded him afresh of the humiliation he’d suffered at the hands of Mrs. Wakefield and the callow brute she’d taken up with. Now that he’d had time to reflect, he realized he should not have been so surprised at this Rayburn’s presence. What sort of man would she attach to her but a malleable, brawling brute who could be induced to obey her orders without thought? Yes, she’d probably already given him all sorts of favors in exchange for his assistance in blocking her sister’s path to a woman’s normal life.
When Anthony finished, Valloy stood. He faced the window with his hands folded behind his back, and remained in that attitude for a slow count of twenty.
When Valloy faced Dickenson again, his countenance was flushed scarlet, but otherwise his coutenance was under complete control. He lowered himself back down into his seat, and leaned across the table.
“You, sir, are either a liar or a blackmailer and you will get out at once.”
Dickenson felt his own ears begin to burn, but he held his temper. “I regret that I am the bearer of such sordid news, but I am here in hopes of forming a partnership of mutual benefit.”
“Again, I say, if you intend extortion of any sort . . .”
“I do not want to become angry with you on so short an acquaintance, Valloy, but I will if that word is spoken again. I am a man of business, and I am here with a business proposal. Will you hear me out?”
Valloy made no direct answer. First, he glanced about the room, making sure no one was near enough to overhear their conversation. Then, he flicked one finger toward Dickenson, indicating he should continue.
“The fact that there was a marriage
ceremony is of little significance. Despite recent changes to the law, the actual statutes regarding marriage remain quite lax,” said Dickenson. Like Valloy, he kept his words casual and calm. “A decent lawyer and a decent payment to the proper parties will be able to procure a quiet annulment. I can myself supply an affidavit certifying that the circumstances were extremely irregular.”
“Go on,” said Valloy.
Dickenson took his time. This next part must be handled delicately. Valloy was an intelligent man. It would not have escaped his notice what sort of connection he would be acquiring when he married Mrs. Wakefield. Still, if Dickenson descended into unnecessary vulgarity, it could damage his case.
“While Mrs. Wakefield is not in every way a conventional sort of woman, she does possess some very proper family feeling.”
Valloy’s eyes flashed and Dickenson hurried on. “This may also be seen in her sister, Miss Morehouse. I know that Mrs. Wakefield does not wish to compound any lingering injuries that may have resulted from mistakes made by certain other members of the family. She especially does not want to be seen to jeopardize her sister’s reputation. Mrs. Wakefield’s marriage may be put down to an impulse of the moment, such as women are subject to. After all, Miss Morehouse had engaged in what might, under more usual circumstances, be considered an imprudent move.”
“Might this imprudent move be your elopement with Miss Morehouse?” murmured Valloy. “It is being rather talked about.”
Anthony nodded his head, indicating the truth of this. Valloy waited for him to offer excuses, but he did not. Excuses would only make him look weak.
“If Mrs. Wakefield could be shown that her marriage would bring further disadvantage to her family, I believe she could be convinced to give the thing up. There would of course still be a scandal if she dropped the marriage so soon after it was solemnized,” Dickenson went on. “To keep it from erupting uncontrollably, Mrs. Wakefield would have to marry yet again, and quickly. This new marriage would have to be to a man with the sensibility and resources to get her away from London, and keep her away.”
Valloy ran one finger thoughtfully across his upper lip and lapsed into another of his long silences. For a moment, Dickenson feared he had gone too far. Planning to marry an ungovernable widow was one thing. Actually marrying her while her bed was still warm from the body of another man was quite another.
Valloy shuddered once, in anger or disgust, Dickenson could not be sure. Other than that, he remained completely composed. Dickenson saw Valloy was a man who had perfected the art of the facade. His cool demeanor was a mask he could don at a moment’s notice, no matter what thoughts or emotions might be seething underneath. He could respect such a man. More, he could work with such a man.
“It is clear, Mr. Dickenson, you do not think much of Mrs. Wakefield. So, tell me, why should I simply not cry off? If what you say is true, she is now married to another man. If I pursue the subject, I will be involving myself in a most unseemly scandal. Should I still require a wife, there are others who may be had with less cost and trouble, and who have infinitely preferable connections.”
“The Great Devon Road,” replied Dickenson evenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Great Devon Road, the one that is even now being planned in the bowels of the ministry. The route has not been finalized, as I am sure you are aware.”
“Your point, Mr. Dickenson?”
“I am in a position to make sure that when the route is fixed, it will be fixed in a way that is advantageous to whomever holds the Wakefield lands.” The lands that had been left in trust to Jeremy Morehouse, the lands that, according to Dickenson’s informants, Valloy was willing to marry Mrs. Wakefield in order to control.
It would cost him thousands of pounds to make sure of the planning commission, and require that he turn over a few letters his family had been saving for just such an event, but if it secured Genevieve to him, the cost would be more than worth it.
Valloy’s eyes flickered back and forth. He was thinking, and thinking quickly.
“Very well,” he said at last. “On two conditions.”
“Which are?”
“First, you will leave the matter of dissolving the marriage with me. I have made it my business to become fully informed regarding Octavian Morehouse’s character. I believe I know how I may work on him to obtain a result that would be desirable for us both.”
“And the second?”
Valloy’s voice dropped to a bare whisper. “You will write out a letter guaranteeing the outcome you have just promised me regarding the Great Devon Road, and you will sign it.”
Now it was Dickenson’s turn to fall silent. This was dangerous in the extreme. If anything went wrong, he would be handing Valloy the means to ruin not just him, but his entire family.
But it was the only way for him to have Genevieve, to have her and hold her and keep her beauty away from all others for as long as they both lived.
Dickenson raised his hand to summon the waiter and give the order for quill, paper, and ink. When the man left, Valloy reached across the table and picked up the decanter.
“Will you change your mind about a glass, Dickenson? I can see we have a great deal to discuss.”
Twenty-One
Harry’s arrival at his parents’ house in St. James Square was quiet, but only for as long as it took to hand his borrowed hat and overcoat to the footman.
“Harry!” cried Fiona. “At last! We were beginning to think you’d enlisted or some such thing.”
Harry had just enough time to turn and stare, before his sister marched up to him and planted her hands on her hips. Harry felt his cheeks go pale, and he knew she saw it, but he had no chance to compose himself.
“Good morning to you as well, Fi,” said Harry as coolly as he could manage. She can’t have heard yet. “I’m glad to see you, too. You are looking well.” Actually, she looked angry. Her face was roughly the same shade of rose as her walking dress. Harry’s heart plummeted and he glanced at the case clock in the corner of the broad foyer. It hadn’t even reached noon yet. He remembered his confident words to Leannah when he said his female relations did not go visiting until one o’clock. What if he’d been wrong?
Fiona ignored this bland greeting. “You must come in here at once. Mother’s in a state! You have to contradict this viciousness immediately!”
Harry crossed the floor in a state that managed to combine the sensation of floating with the sensation that he could well sink through the marble floor at any moment. The footman, he noted, had very sensibly taken himself elsewhere.
The day had turned quite fine, and bright sunlight filled the morning room where their mother sat on a small beige velveteen sofa. As usual, Fiona exaggerated. His sister might be flushed with pique, but Mother appeared utterly calm. The only sign of agitation could be seen in the way she held her hands clasped tightly together in her lap.
Mrs. Nicholas Rayburn, née Louisa Amesworth, had been a beauty in her day. Time and a happy marriage had transformed her into a comfortable matron. Her thick fair hair was streaked with gray that she never troubled to dye. Gray hair, she said, was her badge of honor for having survived her youth, and her children. If she was plumper than fashionable, she was also more shrewd and more steady than the world tended to give her credit for. She had seen a great deal with her mild blue eyes, and those eyes looked straight through Harry now.
She knew. They knew.
The disembodied sensation that had carried Harry this far dissolved and he felt as if he were dropped, hard. Hard enough, in fact, to crush him down to a boy again, with Mother about to unwrap a handkerchief filled with fragments of the heirloom vase he had attempted to repair.
“Please sit down, Harold,” said his mother.
Harry did. His first impulse was to choose the cane-backed chair, which happened to be the farthest away from her. But he rallied and instead chose the tapestry chair beside the sofa. Fi stationed herself behind mother like a
guard of honor, her eyes blazing.
“There is a most unfortunate rumor abroad,” Mother began.
“That odious Dorothea Plaice!” cried Fiona. “She positively barged into Lady Penelope’s breakfast room . . .”
“I thought no one was at home before one!” Harry’s words came out far closer to a yelp than they should have.
“It’s the second Friday, silly,” said Fi. “Lady Penelope always has a breakfast on second Fridays during the season and we were invited to—” Mother turned her face up to give her daughter a Significant Look. “But that’s neither here nor there.” Fi waved her own words away. “The point is that Dorothea Plaice waltzed right up to mother, and wished her joy on the marriage of her son! ‘I can’t believe you’ve kept it such a secret!’ she says, right in front of Mrs. Candle and Lady Denmark and all the world!”
It must be a very large breakfast room. Harry decided against voicing this thought.
“Well, of course, Mother doesn’t know what she’s talking about and she says Miss Plaice must be mistaken. This is when Miss Plaice gets the slyest smile on her face”—Fi drew her own mouth up on a tight, simpering grin. Mother looked pained, but Harry couldn’t tell if it was at the memory, or Fi’s energetic recreation of the conversation—“and she says ‘Oh! I’m sorry! Have I trod all over the surprise! I was only in such a hurry to congratulate you. Why I met Mrs. Wakefield . . . I should say the new Mrs. Rayburn, who is an acquaintance of mine—with dear Harry just last evening. They together confirmed everything, so naturally I assumed some sort of announcement had been made!’”
Leannah had warned him this would happen, and he hadn’t believed her, not really. He’d have to arrange to kick himself later. Probably after he apologized and promised never to doubt her again.
“Now!” How Fi could imbue one word with so much menace was beyond him. “You must tell Mother that Miss Plaice got it all wrong. You have not married Leannah Morehouse Wakefield.”
She crossed her arms, very obviously waiting for him to obey her instructions.