Scandal's Promise

by Gibson, Pamela

  Night had fallen, and no stars were out. They rode nearly an hour until they viewed the Tower of London in the distance. Stopping outside a noisy tavern where they sought directions, they began again, moving slowly to peer at signs. People scurried about their business in the narrow streets, going where Andrew could only guess. Odors seeped into his senses as they rode—rotting fish, resin, the river, remnants of human activity, life, and decay.

  When they reached the Sudley docks, they dismounted and led their horses along the wooden quay. A ship, tied at the end of a dock, waited for the tide to take it down river and out to sea. Walking back to the street, Andrew peered into the narrow alleys. An occasional lantern flickered in the darkness. His horse whinnied as a rat scurried toward the end of another pier. Warehouses, busy by day, loomed in the silence of the night as wisps of fog curled around scattered lampposts.

  A deep sense of foreboding crawled up his spine as they passed a few boarded up buildings that seemed devoid of life. His son lay within one. A child who now defined his existence, who had brought a sense of purpose and value to his life.

  When they’d walked about a quarter mile, they finally spotted a sign. Andrew, the taller of the two, lit a match and held it up. The sign, which had seen better days, pictured a swan. Faded letters, hard to read in the dim light, probably proclaimed its name.

  “I believe this is it.”

  The door was not latched, and windows on the ground floor were broken. Andrew took off his boots and slipped up the creaking wooden stairs. Grateful for his thick woolen socks, he tiptoed along a litter-strewn hallway, following the sounds of whimpering, hoping it wasn’t another occupant of the building—one who might get in his way. He turned at the door, and with his fingers raised to his lips, he motioned a stocking-footed Ralston to join him.

  He hadn’t thought to bring a weapon, but if he had to fight Wentworth with his bare hands, he would. He inched the door open and found the room lighted by a candle on the windowsill. George lay on the bed, his hands bound in front of him. He screeched when they entered the room.

  “Shh. It’s Papa. I’m here to take you home.”

  “Papa?”

  His glance took in the room. Not seeing Wentworth, he moved quickly to the bed, untied the child, and held him in his arms. The boy shook, either with cold or fear, and the anger in him doubled. “Can you tell me where your captor is?”

  “I don’t know.” He sobbed. “I want to go home.”

  He carried the trembling boy out the door with Ralston in the lead. Pausing at the top of the stairs, Ralston signaled him to move forward, and Andrew awkwardly carried the lad down. When they reached the outer door, heavy footsteps—approaching fast—disturbed the quiet of the deserted street.

  Andrew handed George to Ralston and burst through the door.

  “You!” Wentworth halted.

  “Yes, me.”

  He stepped back. “I was on my way to see you. To tell you where the boy was.” He glanced behind him. “How did you find—?”

  Andrew’s fist caught him directly on the chin, and he fell to the ground. “That’s for George and what you’ve done to him. Meet me at dawn in Hyde Park. Bring your second. This time I shall not delope.”

  “You can have the little brat.” He spat on the ground and rubbed his jaw.

  “Too late. Ralston will be my second. Name yours.”

  “I-I suppose it will have to be my brother. He’s back in town.” He slowly staggered to his feet. “Wait. I apologize. Can we not dispense with this nonsense? You have the boy.”

  “The hill at Hyde Park, Wentworth. Just as before.”

  Andrew signaled Ralston, who emerged with George.

  Lifting his son onto the saddle, Andrew directed him to hold the pommel. He put on his boots and mounted behind, holding the boy tight. “It seems I am always having to rescue you, George. From now on I want you to stay in one place.” He laughed, hoping to put the boy at ease. He and Ralston headed back the way they came, knowing Wentworth would not give chase.

  When they arrived back at Cardmore House, Andrew carried George to his suite and put him on the bed. He and Ralston brought Lester’s cot in from the dressing room. “Are you hungry, lad?”

  “Thirsty.”

  Andrew poured water from the ewer and let him drink. “Let’s get you out of these clothes and into something warm.” The lad shivered as he was stripped. Andrew found a nightshirt in his drawer, which dwarfed the boy. After rolling up the sleeves, he picked him up and put him in his bed. “Remember when we found you in the priest’s hole? Afterward you slept in my room. You can again. You will not be alone again, George. I promise.”

  “Will you sleep here, Papa?”

  “Yes. But on the cot. I want you to close your eyes now, and I shall be here when you wake up. We’ll have cook fix Bath buns for breakfast. With cinnamon. And hot chocolate.”

  “I love you, Papa.”

  He leaned over and kissed the boy, his heart tight with emotion. “I love you, too. Sleep now. I shall return momentarily.”

  Andrew poured water into a glass for the boy and then brought the housekeeper in to sit with him until he fell asleep. He then went downstairs to wait for Ralston.

  Feeling in control of his life for the first time, he realized he hadn’t even given his aching shoulder a thought.

  I can do this. As soon as we return to Cardmore Hall, I will endure whatever is required. And once it’s done, I shall win Emily back.

  Tomorrow he must face Wentworth once again.

  Ralston had left forthwith to inform the Marquis of Dunston of the duel and to agree on the details. He’d taken Lester with him to turn him over to the runners. Lester’s fate would be decided later.

  Andrew drained a bottle of laudanum and sprawled before a fireplace. He must have dozed because Ralston sat opposite him with a glass of brandy in his hand when he awoke.

  “What shall we choose? Pistols? Swords? Pirate cutlasses?”

  “There will be no duel.”

  Andrew scowled. “I’ll not have that rotter threatening George again, Ralston.”

  “He won’t. His brother has packed him off on that ship we saw in Whitechapel. It sailed an hour ago.” He sat with his arms folded, his lips in a grim line.

  Andrew rolled his neck and stared into the fire. “I wanted blood, Ralston.”

  “No you didn’t. You saw enough death in the war to haunt your dreams for a lifetime. Fortunately the Code of Honour puts a duelist’s fate in the hands of his second and bids that person to try and resolve the issue. Wentworth apologized and wants no duel. I accepted the apology on your behalf. He’s gone, and he won’t be back.”

  “How do you know?”

  Ralston sighed. “Dunston has assured his brother that if he ever sets foot in England again, he is to be arrested for kidnapping. The Marquis of Dunston is a powerful man. He wants to avoid scandal at all costs.”

  Andrew nodded. He was right. The Code gave the named seconds the power to end the duel or to make arrangements to see that all was fair. If it had taken place, the new scandal would revive the old one. George wouldn’t be hurt, but it could hurt Emily.

  “Then we have something to celebrate.” He poured himself a brandy and raised his glass.

  Ralston uttered a mirthless laugh. “To be truthful, I worried that your reflexes would not be up to the task and you might die, leaving George to Woodley.” He leaned forward. “You want to live, Andrew. You want a normal life. Once you forgive yourself for all the so-called transgressions you dwell on, you will find peace.”

  “As usual, you are the voice of reason, my friend. Thank you for that.”

  “You’re welcome. Now for your transformation.”

  Ah yes, his change from rotter to gentleman. Could he do it? Now, mo
re than ever, he was determined to succeed.

  Chapter 37

  The green velvet gown lay crumpled in a pile. Emily folded it and set it in her armoire. Her cousin Miranda laughed as she picked up a remnant and studied the length. From the minute she and her family arrived, the house seemed to vibrate with merriment. “This piece is not long enough for a cape. Perhaps a reticule? I can see a tiny little sack made of green velvet hanging from your arm.”

  Emily frowned. “A sack? No. I want a practical container, full of little pockets for coins and maybe a sweetmeat.”

  “I knew you were clever with a needle. If only I had your talent.”

  “You have no need to sew. The Longley estate must have a seamstress or two on staff or, if not, in the village.” Emily sighed. “Unless you enjoy the pastime, as I do.”

  “You seem tense. Are you sickening? Christmas seemed to be one of Will’s busiest seasons.” Miranda’s cool hand gently touched Emily’s forehead. “No fever. Let us walk outside among the trees, and you can tell me what’s wrong.”

  The Earl and Countess of Longley had arrived earlier, in time for the midday meal. The children were now in the nursery, and Emily had whisked Miranda off to the sewing room to show her the dress she had completed for Christmas Day, and to tell her everything that had transpired. But Miranda’s discerning eyes had seen more than Emily wanted her to see. The woman had an uncanny sense of perception and seemed to know when something was amiss.

  They donned their outerwear and warmest bonnets and headed toward the lake. The Montagues were staying two nights. Phoebe—their ward—and the earl had an appointment with the headmistress of a new finishing school for young ladies tomorrow. Phoebe had friends there and hoped to begin in January when the next term began.

  The scents of winter filled the air, and Emily breathed deeply, weighing whether she could share her secrets. She desperately needed advice, and Miranda was the most qualified to give it.

  “Cardmore has returned, and his son is with him. I received a note from Lord Ralston yesterday.” She leaned down and picked up a small branch on the path, casting it aside as she rose. “George is unharmed but frightened. He-he calls for me.” She choked out the last sentence, trying not to show the emotion crushing her chest.

  She longed to see the child if only to reassure him he was quite safe now. She also wanted to see Andrew. Lord Ralston had also told her what she’d heard at the Culbertson’s was false. Andrew had lied to Wentworth to get the child back. Woodley had verified it. She’d been wrong to doubt him.

  “If the child is distressed, you must go to him. This little boy has no mama. He’s obviously fond of you.”

  “I must defy Mother to do it. She loathes the fact I had renewed my friendship with Cardmore, and Papa will stand by her in this.”

  Miranda stopped and held Emily’s arm. “Does she know how you feel?”

  “I told her. Yes.”

  “It’s your life. If you wish to visit the child, do so. I can tell your heart will break otherwise.”

  “There is more. Remember when I told you Andrew relied too much on laudanum, and you informed me of its addictive properties? Apparently he has decided to forego the drug.”

  They reached the lake and walked past Emily’s favorite rock along the path circling the water. Reaching the summerhouse on the other side, they found a bench with a fine vista of the lake and the pine-covered hills beyond. Smoke from the Langston Grange chimneys circled in the air in the distance. The sun sparkled on the water as it prepared to set, but the temperature already left a distinct chill in the air.

  Emily looked at her cousin, seeing the grim set of her mouth. “Should I be there for Andrew, too? Growing up, I was the one he came to when angry or hurt. I was the one who held his hand and eased his suffering when his father beat him for not following instructions or failing to show proper respect. We bonded early in life—not in the carnal sense—in our hearts and souls.”

  Miranda’s expression softened to kindness. “You cannot be there, Emily. Withdrawal is brutal, dangerous even. His agony will be great, and he will shout and curse and may even injure himself. If the process has been explained, he will have men assisting him—men of physical strength to restrain him.”

  “But I must.”

  “No you must not. But we will go there tomorrow. If you do not wish to alarm your mother, I shall tell her I am paying a call on a neighbor, which will be the truth. If he knows you are there, the news will give him a bit of encouragement. Is anyone else with him?”

  “Lord Ralston. He is Andrew’s best friend, and I believe he will remain to spend Christmas with him and George.”

  “Then Ralston can be the one to tell him you’ve come to visit George, and anything else you wish to say.”

  Emily swallowed the rock lodged in her throat. “Thank you.”

  “Now. Let us get back before we are missed. What a lovely spot you have here. No wonder you’ve chosen to live with your aunt. The villages in the Cotswolds are among the most picturesque in England, do you not agree? I spied a number of interesting shops while the carriage slowed for a flock of sheep in the lane on our way through town.”

  They walked arm in arm back to the house. The interior smelled as nice as the outdoors, and Emily was glad the servants had completed the task of decorating for yuletide. Little James had toddled about, reaching for holly berries, but his papa had scooped him up, putting them out of reach. They made a jolly addition to the solemnity of Langston Grange. Even Mama seemed to smile more since they came. Perhaps she was reminded of her girlhood with Victoria, Miranda’s mother.

  Dinner was grander than usual with company, and after dining, the ladies took tea while Longley and Papa smoked cheroots and drank port. The children, tucked up in the nursery earlier by Miranda and James’s cheerful nurse, were already asleep. Both Miranda and Emily had looked in on them earlier.

  “Mrs. Whittington, I long to see your pictures. Would you show me your art room tomorrow? After nuncheon? I have an early morning errand in the neighborhood, and Emily has agreed to accompany me.”

  “I would be delighted. Are you interested in art? Most of my paintings are landscapes, but I tried painting a portrait of Emily. You must tell me what you think.”

  “I think she made me look angelic,” Emily said.

  Miranda was a master at diverting conversation. Mama never inquired what the errand was, saving them from having to fabricate if she probed too deeply. After a suitable time, they each retired to their chamber. Miranda had promised to visit the children one last time, but wished for an early evening, being tired from the trip.

  The weather held, so the next day they slipped away early. Miranda insisted on going into the village and stopping at the bookshop for a gothic novel she wanted to send to Gwendolyn, and while she browsed, Emily asked if any new Austins had been published.

  “So you do not share Gwen’s taste for gothics?” Miranda asked.

  “I’m afraid not. Too frightful for me. But I know Gwen loves them.”

  “My sister-in-law is the epitome of the modern woman—brave, kind, and smart as a Cambridge don. She and John seem well-matched.”

  “I worried for a time,” said Emily. “But no longer. When I visited in the summer, they were quite happy.”

  Miranda scooped up her parcel, and they strolled out to the carriage. “Did I tell you I had a letter from her? And you will be thrilled to hear what she told me.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “She’s increasing again.”

  Emily clasped her hands and brought them to her chest. “I am ecstatic. Gwen wanted a large family, above all things.”

  The footman helped them into the carriage, and with a lurch, they set off for Cardmore Hall. The time was not yet noon, but Emily assured Miranda the household was an early one.
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  When they arrived, they were shown into the guest parlor where they were asked to wait. They did not inquire about Cardmore and had asked instead for Lord Ralston. The butler had complied and told them he would see if Lord Ralston was receiving.

  A shout, somewhere in the distance, arrowed into Emily’s heart. Miranda put her gloved hand across Emily’s and squeezed. “Please do not distress yourself. There is nothing you can do for him. He must do it on his own. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  But it took every ounce of restraint not to run up the stairs into Andrew’s bedchamber.

  I love him, and I curse the fates who kept him from me.

  But there was still the matter of trust.

  So fragile, so easily lost.

  And rarely regained.

  Chapter 38

  Ralston burst through the door. “Thank God you’ve come.” He stopped and bowed to Miranda. “Lady Longley. I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “My family and I are visiting the Grange. We leave tomorrow.”

  Emily interrupted their exchange. “Is it Andrew? Does he want to see me?”

  “No. You must not even think to go near him.” Ralston appeared rumpled and unshaven. His coat was unbuttoned, and his cravat was askew. “’Tis Master George. He needs you. He hears his father cry out, and it terrifies him. Can you go to him?”

  “Of course.”

  They made their way up the stairs. When they passed Andrew’s door on their way to the nursery stairs at the end of the hall, groaning came from within his room, followed by a crash. Emily tensed while Miranda grabbed her hand and tugged her along.

  “Do not tarry. You do not want to see or hear any part of this,” Ralston said.

  Her heart squeezed inside her chest. Poor Andrew. How he must be suffering to be groaning aloud. The door handle rattled, and someone pounded on the door. “Let me out, damn you. Let me out. Can you not see I’m dying?”