An Infamous Betrayal

by Lynn Messina

  “By what yonder light, she emerges!” cried Lady Abercrombie excitedly as she beheld Beatrice for the first time in several weeks. “I had begun to think this day would never come, your aunt was so determined to keep you hidden. Of course I did not truly believe she had sold you to the Duke of Northumberland to do his bidding, but I was prepared to start that very rumor to induce her to display you as proof of its inaccuracy. My dear Miss Hyde-Clare, I’m quite pleased to see you again. Tell me, do, what has kept you from being abroad for so long? Vera’s missives were so vague and spoke only of an ‘unavoidable ailment,’ which, naturally, struck me as bizarre, for what ailments are avoidable?”

  Although Bea longed for nothing more than a quiet corner and the opportunity to nurse her wounded heart in silence, she knew trying to evade the Countess of Abercrombie was a futile proposition. And yet, even as she submitted resentfully to her eager attentions, she acknowledged some part of her was warmed by her ladyship’s greeting, which seemed as sincere as it was effusive.

  “Actually, this one,” Bea said softly, forcing a smile as she quickly thought of a plausible explanation to excuse her absence. As her aunt had not given her any guidelines to follow, she felt free to come up with whatever explanation she wanted—although, recalling the unexpected consequences of the seemingly harmless Mr. Davies fiction, she knew it was best not to be too outlandish with one’s details. “All I had to do was avoid the chair on the landing, but I was carrying a book and not paying attention so I walked right into it. Then I tripped and knocked my head against a table, which resulted in a pair of unflattering bruises around my eyes. It’s all very mundane, as a matter of fact, but I suspect my aunt wanted to keep the contretemps, minor though it was, a secret because I embarrass her.” That, at least, was true. “She would prefer that I were a little less clumsy and a lot more graceful.”

  “Nonsense,” her ladyship said with emphatic dismissal. “Your awkwardness is part of your charm.”

  Bea laughed. Only minutes before—no, mere seconds—she could not have imagined being amused by anything ever again, and now she giggled so wildly at the countess’s outrageous suggestion she drew the attention of several people around her. Although their startled looks did not concern her, the realization that Aunt Vera might be close enough to hear her caused her to abruptly stop. Alas, the sudden inhalation of air triggered a violent fit of coughing that threatened to attract more notice than the laughter.

  As Bea struggled to regain control of her breathing, Lady Abercrombie looked at her fondly. “There, that’s it exactly. Keep that up, my dear, and we’ll have you married by June.”

  “With all due respect, my lady, I think this time you’ve overextended yourself,” Bea said kindly. “No doubt you’ve turned so many sow’s ears into silk purses you decided it was time to increase the level of difficulty by transforming a mouse’s ear. While I appreciate the impulse, I’m afraid it was ill-considered and I suggest you return your attention to bringing a lion cub into fashion and leave me to my obscurity.”

  Although Bea intended many aspects of this speech to be insulting, her ladyship merely nodded with approval and moved her schedule up by a month. “Leg-shackled by May, I’m certain of it.”

  Bea felt an absurd desire to scream. There, while standing in the Duke of Pemberton’s ballroom, surrounded by the finest members of the ton, as the last strains of the waltz faded to silence, she wanted to shriek at the top of her lungs with the same force and feeling Emily had displayed when she discovered her mother trysting with the forbidden Mr. Wilson, a visceral sound wrenched from the edges of her soul. It wasn’t Lady Abercrombie’s fault. It had nothing to do with the beautiful widow. She merely wanted to shriek at the world for being so astoundingly unfair, which was somehow even more absurd, for she had been orphaned at five and had never known anything but injustice.

  But of course she didn’t scream or yell or raise her voice to an injudicious level, for as awkward as her charm was, it certainly wasn’t blundering. She knew what befit her station, and having just regained the freedom to leave the house, she would do nothing to endanger it again so quickly. Even so, she couldn’t quite smother the nerves roiling her emotions, and she once again began to laugh with uncontained mirth. It was, she realized, a sort of surrender. She would submit to Lady Abercrombie’s ministrations, whatever they were. Resisting them would get her nowhere, and it was better that someone took an interest in her than no one.

  “Miss Hyde-Clare!”

  Bea froze and watched in horror as the Duke of Kesgrave, his blue eyes glimmering with delight, walked toward her with the Tavistock heiress at his side. With her generous lips and thick lashes, Lady Victoria was even more exquisite up close.

  “You are here,” he said, stating the obvious with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. “How wonderful. I’m relieved to see you have suffered no lasting effects from your accident.”

  Bea knew she had to respond, but she couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t facile or nonsensical. She could not compliment him on the lovely curl of his blond locks, and she absolutely must not congratulate him on his impending nuptials. But that was all she could think: how handsome he looked and how attached he was.

  Lady Abercrombie, of course, remained in full control of her faculties and did not hesitate to offer a cheerful greeting to the pair. She complimented Lady Victoria on her lovely gown, inquired about her mother and promised to visit just as soon as Henry, her lion cub, had recovered enough to pay social calls. He had acquired a nasty cut on his front paw from a shard of glass he stepped on while playing hide-and-seek with Groatson in the kitchens. Naturally, she blamed the butler for the mishap, as he seemed not to comprehend the fact that he was engaged in the game at the time, which was disappointing, for certainly he was at least as clever as any five-year-old child in a schoolroom.

  Although Bea was still rattled by Kesgrave’s sudden appearance, she felt some of her anxiety lessen as she watched the heiress struggle with how to respond to the countess’s remarkable speech. It was not that she thought the girl was particularly idiotic—though, yes, Bea was petty enough to relish the prospect of the excessively articulate and intelligent duke bracketed to a goose cap for all of eternity—but rather that she welcomed the comforting reassurance that even poised, beautiful women were discombobulated from time to time.

  Darting a confused glance at Kesgrave, Lady Victoria thanked the widow for her attention and suggested that perhaps she plan her visit before Henry recovered, as her mother had a strict no African animals policy.

  She said the words so simply and sincerely, Bea could only assume she was teasing the widow for her aggressively exotic tastes, and finding herself in sympathy with the heiress, she asked what her mother’s rule was vis-à-vis Asian animals.

  Lady Victoria, however, did not comprehend the sentiment behind the question, and as she stared at Bea in confusion, Bea realized she had misunderstood her intention. The other woman had not been making a sally.

  In that case: Did her mother truly have a policy against African animals?

  Naturally, the possibility that such a rule was actually in place made Bea desperately curious to discover what event in particular had caused its adoption.

  An awkward silence fell over the group as Bea tried to decide how one would word such a question without giving offense, and the Duke of Kesgrave, perceiving an oversight, stepped forward to make the introductions.

  As befitted her reputation for elegance, Lady Victoria greeted her graciously and amiably, expressing hope that she was enjoying the ball and recommending the lemonade, which, in contrast with the variety usually served at assemblies, was pleasingly chilled.

  Although polite banter about the quality of the refreshment table was precisely the sort of conversation Bea had been raised since childhood to engage in, it was also the type that left her feeling strangely inert. The inability to respond to mundane remarks with equally banal observations had undermined her confidence from h
er very first season and was largely responsible for her awkwardness, which, despite Lady Abercrombie’s claims, was wholly deficient of charm.

  Now she said yes several times and wondered if complimenting the voluminous fig tree in the corner would be an appropriate response. Did heiresses notice fig trees? Did they care about them? Perhaps she should remark on the flowers in the ballroom, which were also copious and beautiful, although she wasn’t quite sure what type they were. There were roses, yes, but of what variety?

  Lady Abercrombie spared her the obligation of identifying the genus, however, when she said to Kesgrave, “Isn’t it delightful that Miss Hyde-Clare is finally recovered from her accident? I know it serves no purpose to be angry with an inanimate object, and yet I’m still out-of-account annoyed with the shoe that caused her fall.”

  Given that Bea had singled out a chair as the culprit only a few minutes before, she was surprised to hear the countess name a different obstacle. She saw no reason to correct, of course, for neither object was actually responsible and being a stickler for an untruth seemed needlessly churlish.

  The duke, with whom Bea had had no contact since the afternoon he’d brought her home with a bruised face, glanced at her quickly as if to confirm that this was the story she’d put out and then agreed with Lady Abercrombie that the recalcitrant shoe had a lot to answer for.

  Lady Victoria, who evidently believed in the cultivation of personal responsibility, particularly among the servants, rushed to point out the shoe itself was blameless and that the fault lay with the housemaid or footman who failed to remove the item from her path. She then observed how pernicious garden rakes could be and expressed her gratitude for the staff in Cambridgeshire, who always remembered to put them back in the shed when they were done clearing the lawn of leaves. “We have not had an accident with a rake in six and a half years.”

  Good lord, Bea realized, she’s as pedantic as he!

  She wanted to delight in the perfection of the match, for it served Kesgrave right to be riveted to such a plodding thinker, but all she felt was sadness at the prospect of his ossifying into a bore. He had such a wonderful ability to laugh at himself, and Lady Victoria would most likely give him no cause. No doubt she would hold him in as high regard as he held himself.

  Uninterested in gardening equipment, Lady Abercrombie congratulated Lady Victoria on her staff’s excellent work and promptly changed the subject by announcing her intention to launch a literary salon.

  “It’s Henry, you see,” she explained. “His mishap with the glass shard has sobered him, and now he desires a more scholarly environment.”

  While Lady Victoria furled her brow as if trying to make sense of this ridiculousness, Kesgrave nodded sagely and said, “A literary lion, how droll.”

  While the widow preened, Lady Victoria reminded Kesgrave that he had been charged with introducing her to his grandmother. Called to his duty, he nodded abruptly and bid the two women good evening.

  Although Bea had thought herself thoroughly resigned to the truth, the desolation she felt upon discovering Lady Victoria was about to meet the matriarch of the Matlock clan demonstrated that she somehow still needed convincing.

  “Oh, no, dear, no,” Lady Abercrombie said softly.

  Pulled out of her misery by the distress in her ladyship’s voice, Bea raised her head sharply to see what was the matter and was appalled to realize the countess was looking at her with concern.

  No, not concern, Bea thought. Pity.

  She knows.

  Bea’s heart raced frantically at the thought of this woman—this collection of affectations and antics, this source of outlandish displays and elaborate bids for attention—knowing the truth. It was inconceivable to her that the aging widow with the Oriental fantasia for a drawing room would have any respect for the sanctity of a secret or the discipline required to hold her tongue. As soon as she saw a tactical advantage to sharing the information, the story of Miss Hyde-Clare’s unrequited love for the Duke of Kesgrave would sweep across London like one of Mr. Rowlandson’s caricatures, and she would be a laughingstock.

  If Miss Otley had thought a woman of her advanced years finding love with a dreary law clerk was vastly diverting, it was nothing compared with the entertainment value of an ape leader developing a tendre for the most glittering prize of the season.

  Truly, was there anything funnier than hopelessness on a grand scale?

  “You mustn’t look so stricken, my dear,” Lady Abercrombie said in that same soft, soothing voice. “It’s going to be all right. It will, I promise. You have nothing to fear from me. Despite how I might appear to you, I’m an excellent confidante. If your mother were here, she would tell you there was nobody she’d rather have in her corner during a heavyweight bout than me.”

  At the mention of her mother, Bea felt something break inside her, and she feared she might succumb to tears in the middle of the Pembertons’ ballroom. Horrified by the shame and genuinely terrified of how her aunt would react, she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and raised her head until she was staring Lady Abercrombie in the eye. She expected to find more pity but instead saw only the light of approbation.

  “Good girl,” the countess said with satisfaction. “Just like your mother. I knew you were an out-and-outer the first time I met you, just like Clara. Now let’s go have a coze over there by that plant in the corner. Everyone knows you are my protégé, so it will not raise eyebrows.”

  Lady Abercrombie, for all her insightfulness—and Bea was now prepared to concede the woman had more substance than she’d originally given her credit for—had no idea the harm she was doing with each mention of her mother. She was an orphan girl with only the faintest memory of her parents, and hearing that she resembled her mother in even the slightest way was a pain so exquisite it almost brought her to her knees.

  Somehow, she managed to hold herself together until she sat down in the chair and then for a reason she couldn’t possibly explain, she began to tremble. If anything, it felt as if she were shivering from the cold, but in actuality, she was quite warm. If Lady Victoria returned at that very moment to offer her a glass of cool lemonade, she would place it against her forehead.

  “I won’t ask how this happened,” Lady Abercrombie said gently as soon as she was situated, “for the far better question to ask is how could it not happen. I’m sure half the room is in love with him right now, myself included.”

  Although the widow had already revealed herself to be a far more thoughtful person than she presented on first acquaintance, Bea was still taken aback by the gracious display of solidarity and resolved to be worthy of it. “I doubt it’s no more than a third,” she said, striving for cynical but sliding into dolefulness.

  The countess nodded approvingly. “Yes, definitely an out-and-outer. Now, as I said before, you don’t have to tell me the details, for I’m sure I can make a guess at them. Kesgrave can be devastatingly charming, which I don’t think he realizes, and your situation in particular, where he was doing you a service, made you especially susceptible. I know it feels as though your heart is breaking into a million little pieces, but I swear to you it’s not. It’s merely bruised, and although this seems like the end of the world, it’s only infatuation. Trust me, my dear, I speak from experience: It cannot be love if it’s not returned. It’s something else and it’s just as painful, but it’s not love and you will get through it,” she said and reached over to grasp her hand.

  The solemn intensity with which Lady Abercrombie spoke convinced Bea she believed every word she was saying. These were the truths of romantic relationships as she’d lived them, and given the breadth of her experience, Bea conceded that the other woman might know a few things she did not.

  Alas, that ignorance cut both ways, for there were a few things Bea knew that Lady Abercrombie was wholly unaware of. The latter was under the mistaken impression that Bea’s relationship with Kesgrave was based on a passing obligation he felt toward his father. That
was a lie they had told her to hide the fact that they were investigating Lord Fazeley’s death. She and the duke had been trying to locate the twin to the knife that had slain the earl, and to explain their interest in the blade, which Lady Abercrombie owned, Kesgrave hastily conceived a story about helping her purchase it as a birthday gift for her uncle as a favor to the late duke, who would expect him to assist the daughter of an old friend.

  In actuality, Lady Abercrombie knew nothing of their true relationship and could not conceive the r bond.

  Yet even as Beatrice tried to convince herself that her anguish varied greatly from the disappointments the beautiful widow had endured, she recognized the act as a futile attempt to elevate her own suffering to something greater. She wanted to believe her sorrow transcended ordinary misery, that it was in some way hallowed, but in reality it was just sadness, as common as dirt and as familiar as the sky.

  “I know you don’t believe me,” Lady Abercrombie continued in a bracing tone as she gave Bea’s hand a comforting squeeze. “It’s the curse of the despondent to feel as though they are dropping from a high cliff and will never reach bottom. But you will reach bottom, and indeed I think you already have, as Lady Victoria is quite convincing terra firma. Now, I know this will seem contrary to your own intuition, but trust me when I say that the only remedy to a love affair gone awry is a new love affair. Naturally, you must take a little time to grieve and wallow in the sadness. How does a week sound?”

  Although a week sounded like a grain of sand compared to a beach, Bea’s sense of the ridiculous was far too well-developed not to appreciate the countess’s matter-of-fact attitude. All of a sudden, she felt like a bill being negotiated with the milliner and wondered if she should counter with two weeks.

  “One week to immerse yourself fully in the gloomy sensation that the world will never sparkle again. Then you will rise from your mourning couch and greet the new day,” Lady Abercrombie said firmly. “Do you have a mourning couch? Most people assume it’s merely a settee in a somber color, but it’s really more like a divan, with an open side to accommodate the lethargy of dejection. If you don’t have anything suitable, I can send one over. I keep several on hand, as I find it beneficial to my spirit to mourn the end of a relationship in a variety of environments.”