Candice Hern (56 page)

Olivia stared at him in dumbfounded silence for a moment. This was an unexpected development, to be sure. When she was able speak, her voice came out in an unnatural squeak. "M-marriage proposal?"

"Of course, my dear," he said with a grin. "What else? All this business of weddings and such has made me quite the sentimental old fool. I find that, at last, after all these years, the notion of marriage has begun to appeal to me. Marriage with you, that is. I have become uncommonly fond of you, you know. I would be very honored if you would agree to be my wife, Olivia. But then"—his grin widened—"if you would prefer some less formal arrangement, I suppose I could oblige—"

Olivia stopped his words with her lips. After a short but very satisfying interlude, she said, "You would oblige me, sir, by repeating your offer."

"The slip on the shoulder?" He sighed in mock capitulation. "If you insist—"

"Not
that
offer, you oaf!"

"Ah." He pulled her closer. "The other, then. Will you marry me, Olivia Bannister?"

She breathed her answer into his ear before he captured her lips once again.

Chapter 20

Mary had arrived in Bath late that same afternoon. With no other idea but to go home, she realized it was not wise to remain there. If Jack took it in his head to follow her, she had no wish to be so easily found. During the journey north from Pemworth, she had determined not to remain in Bath longer than it took to accomplish a few essential errands of business. She was not yet ready to face Bath Society with all its insatiable curiosity and penchant for gossip. Somehow she knew she would have to regain her self-confidence, to once again find her own special strength to deal with the world. And she would do it. She had done it once before; she could do it again. But she needed time. Time alone. She could not stay in Bath.

In fact, she had no intention of completely unloading the carriage. She would keep one trunk in the boot for a journey to ... well, she had no idea to where, just yet. But she had devised a plan to seek help from one or two trusted friends.

Her arrival at Queen's Square, to the astonishment of Mrs. Bailey, the housekeeper, had generated scores of questions and curious looks. Mary ignored most of them, confident that Sally would satisfy the curiosity belowstairs. After a quick wash and change of dress, Mary retired to the library. She scribbled a few quick notes and rang for a footman to have them posted at once. She also left a letter for Olivia, knowing that her faithful companion would most likely return to Bath in search of her. Mary took some care with this note, attempting to assuage her guilt over abandoning the poor woman. She also left Olivia a draft for a year's salary along with a reference for future employment. Though she was very attached to Olivia after three years, and would be pleased to have her continue on as a paid companion, Mary did not believe she could face her just yet. Olivia had disapproved of Jack from the beginning. Though too well-bred and loyal to say "I told you so," Olivia's eyes would surely give her away.

No, Mary needed to get away from everyone, including her dearest Olivia.

She would soon need to hire a new companion, but for now she simply wanted to be alone. She wanted to disappear to someplace where no one knew her, as far away as possible.

But where?

She had decided to call on the dowager countess Bradleigh, Robert's grandmother, who had been a good friend to her in the last three years. She knew she could trust the old woman and prayed that she would be able to recommend a remote retreat somewhere to which Mary could disappear. Though the dowager resided in Bath almost year-round, she was known to be very wealthy and to own several other properties throughout Britain. It was primarily this knowledge that shamelessly drew Mary to her door in Laura Place later that afternoon.

The dowager, shocked to find Mary in her drawing room when she should be preparing to recite her wedding vows, did not mince words.

"What did that black-hearted scoundrel do," she asked, "to send you packing on the eve of your wedding?"

Mary should have known the dowager would waste no time getting to the point. She had prepared herself for the inevitable questions and had even mustered the courage to, at least, allude to the truth. Or so she had believed. Now, faced with the dowager's stern gaze and direct questions, she found it more difficult to be truthful than she had expected.

"I have simply decided we would not suit," she said at last.

"Nonsense. What happened, my dear?"

Mary stared at the hands in her lap for several moments. She must say
something
. She considered how much she should confide to the dowager. She had more or less determined not to reveal to anyone her true motives for jilting Jack. She had no wish to admit that she had been duped by a fortune hunter, seduced into believing she was something she was not. It was a very lowering confession, to say the least. And she was feeling low enough already and her nerves were on edge. She was not sure how much she could reveal without losing control.

But then, it would not really be fair to ask the dowager for help without telling her why she needed it. She looked at the old woman—whose sharp brown eyes, so often narrowed in contempt, were now full of kindness and compassion, inviting confidence—and made a decision. Before she could reconsider, she plunged ahead.

"I discovered that Lord Pemerton .. . that he had lied to me," Mary said. "About why he wanted to marry me, that is."

"Yes? Go on," the dowager said when Mary hesitated. "What did you find out?"

Go on with it. Finish what you've started.

"He wanted my money," she said. "Nothing more."

Upon deft questioning by the dowager, the whole story tumbled out. When there was nothing left to tell, Mary reached for her reticule and retrieved a linen square to wipe her eyes. To her shame, she had been unable to hold back the tears.

"My poor lamb," the dowager said as she patted Mary's hand. "I can understand why you left. I always knew that young man was a blackguard. Never understood Robert's attachment to the fellow. He went up several notches in my estimation, though, when I heard of his betrothal to you. Perhaps I was wrong." She tilted her head back and glared at Mary down the length of her aristocratic nose. "Perhaps. But are you sure it would not have been better simply to have confronted Pemerton with what you had learned? What is he going to think, not knowing what you overheard?"

"I do not care what he thinks. And no, I could not confront him. I felt too much the fool. I had to leave."

"Of course," the dowager said in a solicitous tone. "But if he comes after you, and I am not so certain he will, by the way—I should think he will be more angry than hurt—he will surely seek you out here in Bath. Are you prepared to face him now?"

"No," Mary said, "I am not. And that is why ... well, why I have come to you, my lady. I wanted to ask for your help."

"Anything, my dear. What may I do for you?"

"Well, I had hoped you might be able to recommend a place for me to go. I would like to disappear for a while, you see. I would like to be alone, to think. And I... well, I have nowhere to go." Mary cast her eyes back to her lap, uncomfortable making such a bold request.

"Let me think." The dowager's brow furrowed in concentration as she tapped a bony finger against her cheek. All at once her eyes lit up. "There is one place. Do you mind a deal of travel, my dear?"

"Oh no." Mary was suddenly seized with excitement. It was going to work, after all. "The farther away the better."

"Good girl. I have a smallish house in Scotland, given to me by my father. Glennoch was not a part of my marriage settlement, and still belongs to me."

"Scotland?" Mary had not actually considered anything quite
that
far away. "I have never been that far north."

"It is really very lovely. And in the south, in Galloway province, not too far from Kirkcudbright. My husband and I visited Glennoch several times in the early years of our marriage. He was fond of fishing. I have not been there in ... oh, probably twenty-five years. But I keep in touch with the caretakers, a wonderful old couple named MacAdoo. Isn't that a marvelous name? Sounds rather like the call of some wild bird, does it not?
MacAdoo. MacAdoo
." She paused for a moment and chuckled softly. "The areas near Glennoch are full of people with the most amusing names. But I digress. I am sure the MacAdoos keep Glennoch in reasonably good condition. You are free to make use of it for as long as you like, my dear. I believe you will find it quiet and restful. Shall I write to Mrs. MacAdoo?"

"Oh yes, please," Mary said in a shaky, raspy voice. She reached over and planted a kiss on the dowager's cheek. "You are very kind, my lady. You are sure you do not mind?"

"Why should I mind? In fact, I would be glad for someone to have a look at the place for me. Just to reassure me that all is still in order. Stay as long as you like."

"Is there ... is there by chance a pianoforte at Glennoch?"

"As a matter of fact," the dowager said with a smile, "there is, though it must be sadly out of tune, I fear."

"Then I shall go to Glennoch."

"Wonderful!"

"Oh, thank you, Lady Bradleigh. I am most grateful." Mary brushed away more tears, ever close to the surface lately and ready to fall. "I should like to leave at once. Oh, and, if it is all the same to you, I would prefer that no one know where I am just yet. I need some time alone."

"Of course, my dear," the dowager said. "No one shall hear of your whereabouts from me, I assure you."

The dowager wrote down directions to Glennoch for Mary's coachman and recommended several inns along the way. She also agreed to write a letter that afternoon to Mrs. McAdoo, hoping it would arrive before Mary. Just to be safe, she also scribbled a short note of introduction to the caretakers, in case Mary arrived before the letter.

They also discussed the inevitable issue of propriety. Mary was loathe to engage a complete stranger as a traveling companion. At the risk of her reputation, which was, after recent events, of little concern to her in any case, she convinced the dowager that her maid would be sufficient chaperone during the journey north, and that Mrs. McAdoo would do well enough at Glennoch.

Mary gave a quick hug to the dowager before leaving, thanking her again and extracting yet another reassurance of secrecy.

"Don't worry, Mary," the dowager said. "Be off with you, now, before anyone notices you've returned to town."

* * *

"Damnation!"

Jack crumpled the
Morning Post
and flung it across the breakfast room. How dare she make such a bald, public announcement? And so soon.

Lady Mary Elizabeth Haviland regrets to announce

the termination of her betrothal to John Malcolm

Augustus Raeburn, Marquess of Pemerton.

How had she managed the thing so quickly? It had been only two days since his return to London. He had fled Pemworth the very day of Mary's departure, leaving behind, without a moment's remorse, a house full of wedding guests and concerned family members. He would return in a month or so to check on his mother. But he could not have stayed on at Pemworth to save his life. It had been impossible. The thought of listening politely to words of regret and sympathy from the gathered guests, to watch the pity in their faces as they made discreetly precipitous departures, had been more than enough to make him flee. He could not have borne it.

He had returned to Hanover Square only the night before last. He had considered, for a brief moment, the wisdom of placing such an announcement in the papers himself. But without having actually spoken to Mary, or in fact communicated with her in any way, he had felt it best to ignore the situation. There was always that tiny, niggling doubt lurking in the back of his mind that she had not actually meant to jilt him, that she perhaps simply needed more time and would eventually come back to him.

There were no longer any doubts.

But how had she done the thing so quickly? Had she come to London? Was she here even now? Or had she gone home to Bath?

Where was she?

Lady Mary Elizabeth Haviland regrets to announce
... The words taunted him, and he realized he no longer cared where she was. He hoped he never laid eyes on her again for he might not be able to refrain from wringing her little neck. And he sincerely hoped she did in fact regret the announcement. For if she did not now regret it, he would make sure that soon enough, she would.

Jack had returned to London because it was the only place where he could fully indulge in all the pleasures and debaucheries in which he intended to drown himself. He lost no time in doing so. He attempted to obliterate Mary's memory in the arms of a different woman every night. He drank heavily, frequented gaming hells more than he had in the past, and found himself in serious play more often than not. He was determined to make his fortune one way or another, so long as that way did not involve a woman. He completely discarded the notion of marrying an heiress. He would not make that mistake again. The idea of marriage at all made him sick to his stomach. So he played often and deep, won great amounts and lost greater amounts. And he drank to make it all more bearable.

Since it was clear that gambling was not the safest way to secure, and maintain, a fortune, Jack investigated alternative measures as well. He entered into a clandestine correspondence with a "gentleman" in Devon to arrange storage of certain goods on Pemworth property. Renewed use of the Lantern Pavilion could also result in a larger share of profits. Matters began to look brighter. If his luck held out, he might yet be able to save himself from drowning in the River Tick.

A few weeks after his return to London, Jack was surprised to find Sedgewick skulking in the doorway to the crowded green room of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Jack had been dividing his time between Covent Garden, Drury Lane, Sadler's Wells, and other less reputable theaters in his constant and very public search for new women. He was able to boast of never bedding the same woman twice. It had become a kind of game among the women to predict whose favors he would pursue on a given evening. He had even captured the notice of several bored Society matrons out for sport. High-born or low, Jack cared not a fig. He meant only to use as many women as possible for his own pleasure and nothing more. He had even heard word of a wager in White 's betting book regarding how many consecutive nights he would be able to sustain his pleasure marathon.