by Stella Riley
‘Yes.’ He lifted his head so he could look into her eyes. ‘Yes, I am.’
Rockliffe gave a gentle cough, just enough to remind them of his presence.
‘It is a pity you had to leave this until now, Chalfont,’ he remarked lazily. ‘But since you did … and since there is a limit to what I can pretend not to have seen, not to mention the many miles between here and London … I would appreciate you deferring the rest of this touching scene until another time. And yes,’ he said, when both of them looked at him, ‘you may hope that there will be another time. So please get back in the carriage, Arabella.’
Slowly, she disengaged herself from Julian to lay one palm briefly against his cheek.
‘You’ll be all right?’
‘Yes.’ He helped her back into her seat but didn’t let go of her hand. ‘May I write to you?’
‘You had better. If you don’t, I’ll tell Ellie.’
‘Tell Tom instead. I’m already in trouble with him.’ He raised her fingers to his lips and then, looking at the duke, said, ‘I apologise for my behaviour earlier, your Grace. I was somewhat … agitated.’
‘Agitated? Clearly, you have a talent for understatement.’ Amusement lurked in Rockliffe’s eyes. ‘Expect to hear from me, Chalfont. And now, finally … goodbye.’
* * *
A little while later, Rockliffe swayed easily with the motion of the carriage watching Arabella re-living those last moments with the earl and trying to evaluate what they meant. Finally, deciding that it was time to divert her attention, he said idly, ‘Tell me about his lordship. His musical history, for example. Has he ever graced a concert platform?’
‘Oh!’ Arabella’s eyes flew wide and, instead of answering, she clapped her hand over her mouth. Then, sounding thoroughly annoyed with herself, she said, ‘I had a plan. And I forgot all about it. I wanted you to hear Julian play – properly, not through the library door. Then I was going to persuade you to sponsor him and provide him with a chance to perform – and I forgot. How could I have been so stupid?’
‘I imagine knowing that his lordship was in the grip of a nerve-storm may have had something to do with it,’ murmured Rockliffe. ‘As for performing in public … one can’t help wondering if he has the mental resilience for it.’
‘He’s a different person when he plays. He’s been performing for the village --’
‘Recitals for the villagers can scarcely be compared with professional concerts.’
‘I know that!’ said Arabella crossly, wishing she could read the duke’s enigmatic expression. ‘But even from the little you heard, you must have realised how good he is.’
‘Must I?’
‘Yes. He’s extraordinary. He --’
Sighing, Rockliffe held up one staying hand and when she fell silent, said, ‘You are biased, Arabella. Set your opinions aside and give me facts – beginning, as I asked a few moments ago, with whether or not he has ever occupied a concert platform.’
‘Yes. He has,’ replied Arabella. And promptly launched into everything Julian had ever told her about Vienna.
Dear me, thought Rockliffe some three hours later and having learned more about obscure composers and the internal workings of a harpsichord than he ever wanted to know. One forgets how exhausting young love can be. I must be getting old.
~ * * ~ * * ~
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Duchess of Rockliffe read her husband’s letter for the second time and groaned.
Arabella is here, he had written. I believe there is a way to resolve this – but I shall not know whether she will agree to it until tomorrow. An additional complication is that, although no declarations have yet been made, she and Chalfont are in love with each other. Whatever the outcome and barring unforeseen circumstances, you may expect me home on Tuesday. It might be best to leave Elizabeth in ignorance until then.
‘A way to resolve it?’ muttered Adeline to herself. ‘How? And as for Elizabeth … isn’t it already bad enough that the only man who interests her is Ralph Sherbourne? Though any interest on his part may wither fast enough when he finds out she’s the daughter of a lowly vicar with a dowry that probably wouldn’t buy a decent horse.’
Had Adeline known it, the feelings that had assailed Ralph after Cedric’s wedding had made him look inside himself and dislike everything he found. A man who had locked his feelings away because he no longer trusted them; who had convinced himself that he didn’t give a damn what anyone said or thought; and whose nearest thing to a friend these days was his valet. What sadder fellow could there be than one who had to turn to Greek philosophers for comfort? That night had taught him that, unless he wanted to die a lonely and embittered old man, he couldn’t marry a woman who would only tolerate him for the sake of the title … particularly when there was a lady who, for reasons that eluded him, actually seemed to like him.
At the Martindale ball, he danced with a three pretty young things whose parents were shopping for a title and trod a gavotte with a little widow whose gift for double-entendre might, had he been looking for one, have made her an amusing mistress. By the time the Rockliffe party arrived – minus the duke – Ralph was struggling to resist the lure of the card-room. Then Arabella Brandon’s blue eyes met his with a smile that seemed to say ‘Oh – there you are!’ … and the evening no longer seemed a desert.
He claimed her hand for the quadrille and, while waiting for the music to begin, said, ‘Do you know, Mistress Brandon … I find you pleasantly alarming.’
‘Pleasantly alarming?’ she echoed. ‘Is there such a thing?’
‘I think so.’ His mouth curled in a smile. ‘You give the impression of being pleased to see me … which is pleasant – but also alarming because I am unaccustomed to it.’
Elizabeth looked at him cautiously. She was pleased to see him but hadn’t been aware of making it obvious. She said, ‘No one else is ever pleased to see you?’
‘Rarely.’
‘Not even your family? Your brothers?’
‘Them least of all. But since I would happily never lay eyes on either of them again, the feeling is entirely mutual.’ He paused, his expression sardonic. ‘My family is a perfect example of the truism which regrets that one can’t choose one’s relatives. And that is probably the only thing on which my siblings and I can wholeheartedly agree.’
Further meaningful conversation being impossible for the duration of the dance, Ralph spent the time watching her without appearing to do so. She was beautiful, graceful and not in the least flirtatious. Of those three qualities, it was the fact that she didn’t flutter or simper or try to prise compliments out of him that appealed most. There was also honesty, oddly coupled with reserve … and glimpses, from time to time, of warmth. She had told him she did not want to marry but had given reasons which, in Ralph’s opinion, didn’t seem adequate. Indeed, he could only think of one possibility that might account for it. But if he wanted her to confess that, she had to be given reason to trust him.
It occurred to him that he had recently thought quite a lot about trust and the reciprocal nature of it. Perhaps it was time to put that theory into practice. Perhaps, more pertinently, it was time to find out if whatever he felt for Arabella Brandon was equal to the amount of iron-clad nerve he would need to lay bare some part of his past.
As the quadrille came to an end and he escorted her from the floor, he said, ‘Will you drive with me tomorrow? To the physic garden at Chelsea, perhaps, if the day is fine.’
A voice at the back of Elizabeth’s mind told her that she ought to refuse. She was getting too close to him – and he to her. It was neither safe nor wise and would doubtless force her to tell more lies. She should smile and plead a previous engagement.
The smile came easily … but the right words were beyond her.
She said, ‘Thank you, my lord. I shall look forward to it.’
* * *
The following afternoon was one of those mid-October days of bright but only marginally warm
sunshine. Having settled Mistress Brandon in his carriage, Ralph chatted on impersonal topics whilst navigating his way through the traffic. He talked of the opera, which he enjoyed and the theatre, of which he was less fond; when asked about books, he admitted that he had read none of the novels currently in vogue because his taste ran to ancient literature and philosophy in their original languages. Then, since Arabella seemed to find this interesting, he was tempted to continue talking about Aristophanes or Plato – or anything at all rather than the painful thing he had brought her here to confess.
Once at the physic garden, he tossed the reins to his groom and helped her down from the carriage, saying, ‘Shall we begin with the rock garden? I’m told it is the oldest in England … so I suppose one should see it.’
Taking the arm he offered her, she said, ‘You haven’t been here before?’
‘No. I chose it today because it is less popular and therefore quieter than the various alternatives. And I have a story to tell you … if you wish to hear it.’
Elizabeth glanced sharply at him. ‘Yes. But only if you want to share it.’
He didn’t. He actually felt faintly nauseous. But he nodded and said, ‘Very well, then. The scene is Hyde Park at a little after dawn on a January morning some seven years ago. Two gentlemen stand back to back. Both are holding pistols pointing skywards. A short distance away are their seconds and the doctor everyone always hopes will not be necessary. One of the seconds begins the count and the principals pace away from each other in time to it.’
As always when he let himself think of that day, Ralph recalled the sulky gleam of the pistol barrels … the crispness of the frosty grass beneath his feet … the way his breath had smoked on the air. He remembered wondering why Edgar had removed his wig to reveal close-cropped hair of butter-yellow. He remembered it all in excruciating detail.
The count ended; they pivoted to face each other and the handkerchief fluttered down. Then, in the split-second before he fired, Edgar shifted a half-step to his left … and in nightmarish slow-motion, crumpled to the ground.
An instant of horrified disbelief; his pistol falling from nerveless fingers; himself, racing across the turf, thinking, No! No, no, no!
Then he was on his knees, seeing that there was nothing to be done; aware of the doctor and the seconds closing in on him and saying helplessly, ‘Why? Why, Edgar?’
Blood pumping from his chest and pooling bright against the frosty ground, Edgar Wilkes peered up at him. Then, his mouth contorting into something half-smile, half-grimace, he used his dying breath to say, ‘See you in hell, Kilburn.’
He was on his feet without knowing how he’d got there. Augustus Wilkes was clutching his brother’s hand. The doctor’s expression was telling him something he knew but didn’t want to hear.
‘He’s dead, my lord.’
Somehow he managed a coherent reply. ‘I am aware.’
‘I shall have to report it.’
‘You may also wish to report that it wasn’t my intention.’
Tears streaming down his face, Augustus said, ‘You’re a bloody murderer, Kilburn!’ … in counterpoint with Richard Lazenby, his own second, saying, ‘Ralph? What the hell just happened?’
‘Richard,’ murmured Ralph, emerging from the play inside his head, ‘could not believe the evidence of his own eyes; could not believe he had just seen Edgar move deliberately into my line of fire.’
‘Why?’ Elizabeth stared at him, shocked. ‘I’m not doubting your word – but why would he do that? Why would anyone do such a thing?’
Richard and Augustus had both asked the same question. Even though he now knew it wasn’t the whole story, Ralph gave Elizabeth the same answer he’d given them.
‘Edgar Wilkes had a discreditable secret which he knew I shared and which he imagined I meant to make public. In fact, my reasons for confronting him with what I knew were quite different. I had hoped to make him stop what he was doing before someone else … someone with less reason than I to be helpful … ruined him – and the rest of his family as well. But Edgar could not accept that. He challenged me to fight in terms that made a refusal impossible.’ Ralph’s mouth curled wryly. ‘His brother, Augustus, said that if such was the case surely Edgar would have done his best to kill me. Since I thought the same, I could only theorise that he had believed my death would result in exposure.’
That answer had not appeased Augustus.
‘You’ve just killed a man and you’re standing there like a block of ice talking about theories? And what damned secret?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘If I did, I wouldn’t be asking. Well?’
‘Since it died with Edgar, there is nothing to be gained by revealing it now.’
And Richard, homing in on the crux of the matter, ‘Forget the secret. Unless I’m missing something, we just watched Edgar commit suicide.’
‘That is how it would seem.’
His composure astounded him. Inside he was a seething mass of nausea.
‘It’s a bloody lie!’ shouted Augustus. ‘If you think to avoid a trial by branding my brother a suicide, you can think again, Kilburn. I’ll see you swing for this.’
‘No. I have fought three duels, all of them identical. Edgar knew that I would aim for a flesh wound to the left arm … so when, as you all saw, he shifted to his left in that last second, he did not do so accidentally.’
He had not believed it could get any worse … but it had.
‘I don’t watch you bloodthirsty idiots blowing holes in each other,’ snapped the doctor, busy with his bag. ‘I merely deal with the consequences. So I saw nothing.’
‘Nor I.’ How quickly Augustus had pounced on that. ‘There was nothing to see.’
‘You’ll lie under oath?’ And how naïve of Richard to imagine that he might not.
‘Who says it would be a lie? You?’ Wilkes’ laughter was hard and mirthless. ‘It’ll be your word against mine, Kilburn – and nobody’ll be surprised you finally killed your man. But don’t blacken Edgar’s name with this farrago about suicide. No one will believe it. When a gentleman wants to kill himself, he puts a pistol to his head. He doesn’t need someone to do the deed for him.’
The silence stretched out to infinity while he considered his reply.
‘He does if he wants to take that someone with him.’
Coming slowly back from the past, Ralph realised that they had completed a circuit of the rock garden while he had been speaking and that he had seen none of it. Striving for his usual tone, he said, ‘My apologies. That might have been done with less … detail.’
Frowning a little, Elizabeth suspected that it might have been done with much more. She said slowly, ‘You did not come to trial.’
‘I did not come to trial because I left the country.’ He hesitated and then added, ‘Augustus was right in saying it would be my word against his. Richard suggested that labelling Edgar a suicide would do me no credit and that the truth would work better if it came from him. So I left and he did his best. It proved insufficient.’
‘And Philippa?’ she asked gently. ‘I am guessing that she also knew this secret and would have spoken out in the event of your death?’
‘That is what I believed at the time.’ It had taken him months to work out that most of what he had believed before the duel was wrong; that it was not Philippa who had been the pawn in Edgar’s misdoings but the other way about; and that by some muddled, convoluted logic, Edgar’s sacrifice had been made to protect her … which was cripplingly ironic since Ralph had been trying to do the same thing. ‘I knew, of course, that any hope of marriage died with Edgar.’
‘But she must have known you didn’t intend to kill him?’
‘I hoped so,’ he admitted. And thought, I continued to hope until it finally dawned on me that it suited her better not to do so. He drew a careful breath and forced himself to ask the all-important question. ‘Do you believe that I did not?’
‘Yes.’ She replied
without hesitation, seemingly unaware that she had laid her hand over his. ‘I do. But I’m not sure why you told me.’
Relief and the warmth it brought with it made him feel vaguely light-headed and forced him to think carefully before he said anything at all. Finally, with a smile he hoped was convincing, he said, ‘It has been a long time since I cared for anyone’s good opinion. I find that I care a great deal for yours. I am also aware that if I am to tempt you into allowing me to court you, I need to earn your trust. Have I succeeded?’
Yes, thought Elizabeth instantly. But she couldn’t say it. He was inviting her to tell him her own secret … and that if there was ever going to be a perfect moment to confess, this was it. But her heart which had opened to him through the last half hour turned into a lead weight as she remembered Arabella.
She said awkwardly, ‘I – I appreciate the honour you do me, my lord. And your confidences are safe with me. But marriage is out of the question. I’m sorry.’
It wasn’t the answer he had hoped for … but knowing that the worst was behind him and she had not turned away, encouraged him to press the point. He said mildly, ‘So you said when I raised the subject before. My difficulty is that you began to say that you could not marry – which is very different from not wanting to do so or, more specifically, not wanting to marry me. And though I may be wrong, I can only think of one reason which might account for that.’
She eyed him warily. She should not ask … but since the chances of him guessing right were non-existent, she decided to risk it. ‘And that is?’
Ralph doubted there was a tactful way of putting this, so he said, ‘You were betrothed to a gentleman about to go to war. In such circumstances, anticipating your wedding vows would have been understandable. But if you did so and believe that now renders you ineligible, you are mistaken. It would only do so in the eyes of a saint or a hypocrite.’
Turning rapidly scarlet, Elizabeth stared at him in shocked disbelief.