Married to the Rogue

by Lancaster, Mary

  Letchworth’s scowl came back. “I knew you had come about that.”

  “Do you blame me?”

  Letchworth sighed. “Not entirely. But you must see my difficulty, too! I thought her sweet and pure and honest.”

  “Do you have evidence that she is not?” Christopher asked dangerously. “I believe the accusation was against Deborah. And it’s arrant rubbish peddled by the Regent’s snake. Who the devil are you to judge my wife?”

  “I don’t,” Letchworth protested. “But you cannot judge me either since you had married her before this came out.”

  “I knew all about it before I married her,” Christopher said contemptuously. “Do you seriously imagine she did not tell me?”

  Clearly, that was exactly what Letchworth had thought, for he gaped at Christopher in astonishment.

  Christopher curled his lip. “I see that you do judge her. Loath as I am to end the friendship between us—”

  “Wait, Halland, let a man speak!” Letchworth interrupted with some indignation. “I confess I have not truly been thinking of this from your point of view, but you must see it from mine. Lucy may well be pure as the driven snow. In fact, I know she is. But she is not honest. She did not tell me.”

  Christopher allowed him that point.

  “In fact,” Letchworth said bitterly, “the truth paints that silly joke about her sister being the governess in a whole different light.”

  “Has it not struck you,” Christopher said carefully, “that the secret of this scandal was not hers to tell? And what kind of creature repeats scandalous lies about her own sister?”

  Letchworth stopped in his tracks, staring at him.

  Christopher nodded curtly. “Think about that.” He turned on his heel and strode back toward the stables and Nightshade.

  *

  On his return to Gosmere Hall, he discovered that not only had his things been moved into the set of rooms next to Deborah’s, but they had been largely put away, too. There were advantages to having a valet, even if he was a lad with no experience that Hunter had wanted to employ as a footman.

  Grinning, he kicked off his boots, then strolled through his much more spacious and pleasant rooms to the connecting door, meaning to invite Deborah, if she was there, to admire. Receiving no reply to his soft knock, he strolled through to her sitting room. Although it was empty, a faint scent told him she was close by. He walked to her half-open bedchamber door and raised his hand to knock.

  But he could already see her. She sat on the side of the bed, lost in a letter she clutched in one hand. He could not see her face, but there was such concentration in the way she bent over the epistle, such powerful emotion emanating from her, that his light-hearted greeting died in his throat.

  He thought it was the letter she had received yesterday, the one she had dismissed so unconvincingly as unimportant. He had allowed her that privacy, even imagined he understood it to some degree. After all, he had held in his own hand a scented message from his one-time mistress that he had no intention of reading to Deborah. Or replying to. Lady Belham lay firmly in the finished part of his life.

  But something uneasy and unpleasant clawed at his stomach now. She had told him from the beginning that there was no suitor, no lover in her life, no one who had ever touched her heart. And now… But the letter could be from anyone. Because he had thought of his own past indiscretions did not make this one of hers. Nor would he let jealousy blind him.

  She gave a little gasp, as though trying not to weep, even dashed her hand across her eyes.

  “Deborah?” he said at once. “What is it?”

  Her head snapped up. She crumpled the letter as though involuntarily and shoved it into the drawer of her bedside table as if she didn’t want to see it ever again.

  She jumped to her feet, smiling and coming to meet him with both hands held out. “Hunter said you were out on the estate. What have you been doing?”

  He caught her hands, drawing her to him for a brief kiss. “Dull stuff for the most part, but I’m afraid I have promised your presence for two sick visits and a baby admiring session.”

  “Why afraid? I said I wanted to be involved.”

  “So, you did.”

  “I also called at Coggleton House.”

  “Did they receive you?” she asked lightly, although she searched his eyes at the same time.

  “Of course, they did. I told Lady Letchworth she would receive a card of invitation from you, and I had a word with Letchworth.”

  “About Lucy? Is he completely turned against her?”

  “Not completely. I gave him some food for thought, but beyond that… Well, if there isn’t enough between them to get over this, they shouldn’t even be considering marriage.”

  “I came to the same conclusion, talking to Lucy.” Deborah sighed. “She wanted to pretend I had ruined her life when I don’t think she had truly thought much beyond the triumph of catching Sir Edmund and being the mistress of Coggleton House.”

  She laughed suddenly, “Do you hear us, disapproving of them for not knowing each other well enough, when we married after half an hour’s conversation.”

  He smiled back, though his heart twisted again. He thought he had begun to know her, but the truth was, two weeks ago, they had never even met. For him, love had come fast. And he would not ruin that with stupid doubts and jealousies.

  “Come and see my chambers,” he invited, and she blushed and held his hand as they walked together through the connecting door.

  He enjoyed watching her flit about his rooms, examining things she had never seen before, including his collection of Roman coins, the book his sister had given him for his tenth birthday, and the dueling pistols that had been the last gift of his father.

  “Have you used them?” she asked in surprise, gazing at them in their elegant, inlaid case.

  “Lord, no. Apart from shooting practice for fun. I regard them as works of art.”

  She ran her fingers lightly over the decoratively carved wood and engraved silver. “Are they loaded?”

  “I wouldn’t let you touch them if they were.”

  She closed the box and replaced it in his cabinet, examining instead the cravat pins he rarely wore, preferring a plainer style.

  She smiled as everything she saw taught her more about him. That, too, was a novelty and curiously touching. He could not resist dropping a kiss on her exposed nape, enjoying the catch in her breath as she turned to him in immediate response.

  Perhaps inevitably, one thing led to another. Afterward, as she lay content in his arms, he said, “You would tell me if something was troubling you?”

  She kissed his chest, hiding her face. “Of course, I would.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Christopher knew she was hiding something from him, knew it was to do with that wretched letter. Her own silly, instinctive reaction had contributed to that. The doubt in his eyes, swiftly banished, was like a knife in her heart, and she was only grateful for his continued tenderness, even though it made everything worse. Part of her wished she could stay well away from him until after speaking to Barden on Monday.

  Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, I will tell him everything, once I’m sure Barden can’t hurt him.

  In the meantime, there was the social ordeal of church, although she hoped the service might provide some spiritual comfort and guidance.

  They traveled sedately in two carriages—en masse as Georgianna had commanded, even Lord Hawfield allowing himself to be bundled out of the house before breakfast. The journey was just long enough to let dread build in the pit of Deborah’s stomach. Despite her walk yesterday with Georgianna, she did not relish the stares or possible rudeness from the rest of the congregation. For her family’s sake, for Christopher’s, she hoped there would be no confrontation, no awfulness.

  Christopher handed her down outside the church and held her hand comfortingly in his arm. “You’re going to church,” he murmured, “not walking into the lion’s den.”r />
  She smiled gratefully in response, and they followed Lord Hawfield up the path. The vicar welcomed them kindly, and Christopher introduced him to his family. Then they were inside the church and walking up the aisle with all curious eyes upon them. Beside her, Christopher nodded to people he knew. Deborah tried to do the same. She noticed her mother and Lucy and smiled encouragingly. Behind her, she heard Georgianna greet them like old friends.

  As important members of the community, they had pews at the front of the church, and there was a little shuffling to make way for them all. Then, she could sit down with some relief and wait for the service to begin.

  On the other side of the aisle, she noticed Lady Letchworth, Sir Edmund, and Mrs. Ireton. It must have been them Christopher had acknowledged as they walked to their own places.

  Mr. May was a kindly, soothing sort of clergyman. The familiarity of the rituals, the atmosphere of peace in the church, the wise, comforting words of the sermon all played their part on Deborah’s mood. By the time the service was finished, she felt much calmer and walked back down the aisle with considerably more confidence. Of course, the real challenge was still to come, as everyone gathered to greet and gossip outside the church.

  Lord Hawfield paused to hail the Letchworths, commenting on the fineness of the day and thanking them for last week’s dinner. There was little for Deborah to do but smile and murmur greetings and move on as if she did not care whether or not they snubbed her. It came to her that if it wasn’t for Lucy’s unhappiness, she truly would not care.

  Behind her, Georgiana was greeting them with great pleasure, although she paused to call, “Oh, Deb! Don’t let your mama and Lucy go before us!” Thus clearly announcing her friendship with Deborah and her family.

  “One must admire Georgianna,” Christopher murmured in her ear.

  “I am in awe,” Deborah agreed.

  They found her mother and Lucy in conversation with the squire’s family. Their eldest son, Ned Copsley, was clearly besotted with Lucy, at whom he gazed worshipfully while he talked. Lucy was listening politely, occasionally inserting a smile or a nod.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear,” Mrs. Shelby said, receiving a kissed cheek from both Deborah and Christopher. “I have just been telling Mrs. Copsley about all your renovations up at the hall.”

  Of course, there was a difference now from yesterday’s distant bows exchanged across the street. Here, Mrs. Copsley was with her husband and daughter, under the eyes of all her friends, and for an instant, her gaze did flicker over Deborah with dismay. However, without causing a scene, there was little for the Copsleys to do but greet her with civility. And once the civility was made, it was harder to go back on, as Georgianna had pointed out. As they talked, the Bilstons and the Letchworths walked up the path together.

  “Goodbye,” Georgianna said to them cheerfully, turning with a smile to give her hand to Deborah’s mother. As the squire’s family was introduced, Deborah noticed Sir Edmund standing awkwardly beside young Ned Copsley.

  “Good day, Miss Shelby,” he said.

  If it was meant to be an olive branch, Lucy did not rush to pick it up. She merely curtseyed and smiled pleasantly, a gesture that encompassed Lady Letchworth and Frederica, too. Then she turned back to the squire’s son. “You were saying, sir?”

  It was very well done, Deborah thought. She was being polite to both young men and favoring neither. She certainly had no intention of interrupting the squire’s son, who looked positively ecstatic. Even as Sir Edmund hesitated and then strode off, she kept listening and nodding.

  Deborah felt proud of her and told her so. “He need not think he can pick you up and drop you whenever his mood changes.”

  All the same, Deborah didn’t know if it was good that Sir Edmund had clearly wished to speak to Lucy alone. In her opinion, there needed to be a great deal more understanding and honesty between them before they considered marriage.

  Then she thought of her own situation, about meeting Barden tomorrow without Christopher’s knowledge, and looked forward fiercely to her own honesty.

  *

  Lord Barden entered the village of Coggleton before dark on Sunday evening. A pleasant, picturesque kind of place, he thought contemptuously, if one didn’t have to live there. He was sure it would perfectly suit the dull Miss Shelby, whom he had only ever noticed once in his life.

  “Remember, my name is Crosse, here,” he told his valet.

  “I do remember,” Rogers replied, clearly bored. His moments of insolence were growing more frequent the longer Barden failed to pay him. Well, he would just have to wait until Barden’s biggest gamble of all paid off. He hadn’t meant everything to depend on the final part of his complex plan, but his disastrous attempt to acquire the hand and fortune of Juliet Lilbourne had gone so horribly wrong that he could do nothing else.

  In fact, so much depended on his final throw of the dice that he had almost decided to give up the Deborah Shelby portion entirely. But if all worked out with Lady Meg Winter, then he wanted no unpleasant surprises to creep up behind him.

  He knew little about Deborah Shelby beyond where she lived and the relatively humble background of her family. Her father had been a mere country vicar, and Deborah had got her place with the Prince of Wales through, apparently, the recommendation of a bishop who happened to be a family friend. Or some such.

  Still, the village looked prosperous enough, and the inn didn’t seem overawed to receive one of such obvious standing as himself. He supposed that might bode well for his comfort and the stock of the wine cellar. And he might as well push the boat out a little tonight since he had no intention of paying for any of it—hence his assumed name of Crosse. Well, that and the fact that he didn’t really want anyone knowing he had spoken to the Shelby girl.

  The innkeeper’s wife showed him to an adequate bedchamber and asked if he would care to partake of supper downstairs or here in his room.

  He considered. “Here, I believe. Do you have a decent claret? Then send that up now.”

  “Of course, sir. And how long will you require the room?”

  “Just for tonight. I am on my way to London. This is Coggleton, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “I once met a young lady,” he mused. “A very charming young lady whose family lived in Coggleton. A Miss Shelby, I believe.”

  “Ah, Miss Lucy Shelby,” the innkeeper’s wife said fondly. “Beautiful young lady and almost betrothed. Possibly.”

  “No. No, it was not Lucy.”

  “Ah, of course, silly me! If you met her in London, it will have been Miss Deborah Shelby, only she isn’t any longer.”

  Barden knew a moment of increasingly familiar disappointment. “Isn’t what?” he asked flatly. Here? Alive? At least if she was dead, he would have nothing to worry about.

  “She isn’t Miss Shelby anymore,” the innkeeper’s wife said in surprise. “She’s Mrs. Christopher Halland of Gosmere Hall.”

  “Oh,” he said inadequately. “Perhaps I shall run into her and offer my congratulations to Mr. Halland. Mr. Christopher Halland, you say?”

  But as the innkeeper’s wife departed, Barden’s mind was spinning. Christopher Halland, once a rather wild young buck, was currently making his name as a fiery and ambitious member of the House of Commons. In short, he had embraced respectability.

  And married a woman mired in scandal.

  Barden began to smile. Oh, yes, he was very glad he had kept Deborah Shelby in his plan after all, for it seemed she was now worth a good deal more than her silence.

  How much would she be willing to pay for her good name and smooth marriage?

  *

  The Monday morning post brought Friday’s newspapers from London. Deborah eyed them askance in case they contained any further repeat of the Connaught Place scandal. But Christopher did not read such newspapers. He read The London Gazette and The Morning Post.

  “So, what are your plans for today?” he asked over breakfast as h
e spread open The Morning Post.

  “I believe I shall call at my mother’s and begin the arrangements for our party. What about you?”

  “I have some reading to do and letters to write. Tell me, would you rather sail from Liverpool or from Dover?”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean for our wedding trip?” she asked excitedly.

  “I thought I might begin to make arrangements, at least to get us as far as the continent.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I know nothing of travel. Where would be best to depart?”

  “I suppose we could travel south and buy a few things in London that we’ll need for the journey.”

  “Perfect,” she said happily. Providing he still wanted to go once he learned of her deceit. Well, with luck, all that nonsense would be over by lunchtime, and she could depend on his understanding. She just could not imagine what Barden had to say to her.

  He looked up with a quick grin, then returned to the paper. “Tell me, what was the name of your friend who wrote to you?”

  Her stomach lurched as she thought first of Barden’s letter.

  “The other one of the princess’s ladies,” he said.

  She laughed with relief. “Oh, Hazel! Hazel Curwen. Why?”

  “She seems to have married Sayle.”

  Deborah blinked. “Not Sir Joseph Sayle,” she said positively.

  “Yes, Sir Joseph Sayle. Is that a problem?”

  “Obviously not! She just never seemed to like him. But that is wonderful for Hazel! And she will get to travel at last with Sir Joe! As I will with you.” She jumped up and took his hand, dropping a quick kiss on it, and then hurried away before he could perceive the state of her nerves.

  She could not wait for this meeting with Barden to be over. She really could not see how or why he would wish to hurt her or her family. All she could think of was some misunderstanding, for, in reality, the man had no grudge against her. Perhaps, once he saw that, he would be sorry and retract the newspaper story, giving all four of them their reputations back.

  She had hope, inspired by the wonderful omen of her impending trip to Europe. She had found unexpected joy with a man she had not known when she left London. Lucy would find her way, her family were taken care of, and everything was wonderful.