Candice Hern (57 page)

At the moment he was hovering over a prime little morsel who called herself Justine. She was pinned against the wall between his arms and giggled as she thrust her ample bosom against his chest. The scowling figure of Sedgewick, visible out of the comer of Jack's eye, kept interfering with his concentration until, finally, Jack dropped his arms, gave Justine a playful slap on the hip and walked, somewhat unsteadily, toward his friend.

"All right, Sedge. Why the big scowl?"

"Come with me to White's," Sedgewick said in a tight voice Jack had seldom heard him use. "I must speak with you."

"Not now, old man. Can't you see I'm busy?" Jack's arms swept the green room, indicating the collection of actresses and dancers in various stages of undress and provocative postures.

"You're making a fool of yourself," Sedgewick hissed between his teeth. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

"How dare you—"

"
Come on
, Jack. Let's go." Sedgewick turned and left the room.

Jack, furious at his friend's interference, nevertheless followed him through the maze of corridors and prop rooms until they reached the back exit onto the street. Jack leaned against the outside wall and held his head between both hands. Sedgewick's furious pace had made his head spin, and his temples pounded against his hands.

Sedgewick hailed a hackney, jumped in, and held the door open for Jack, who pushed himself from the wall and made a rather ungainly entrance into the carriage. He plopped down next to Sedgewick, his head reeling from the noxious odors emanating from the grimy straw that covered the floor. He reached over and jerked open the window, and rested his cheek against its edge.

"Well, there is hope for you yet," Sedgewick said as the hackney lurched forward. "I wasn't sure you would come."

"I came to satisfy myself," Jack said, enunciating each word slowly and carefully, "that you truly had dared to call me a fool in public, to find out what possessed you to do so, and then to blacken one or both of your eyes."

"Oh, stubble it, Jack. You're in no condition to blacken anyone's eyes. You couldn't swat away a fly. And besides, it is not only me who is calling you a fool. I have just returned to Town and find that all the world is laughing behind your back. As your friend, it pained me to find you so often the butt of insulting jokes."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't be so thick, Jack." Sedgewick gave an impatient wave of his hand. "You know exactly what I mean. Look at you! You look like you've been on a three-week binge. You look terrible."

"So, what if I do? It is no concern of yours."

"Jack, Jack. This is not the way to go about it. The gambling. The drinking. The women. Especially the women. Lord knows you have always been a tad loose in your dealings with females. But this"—he chopped the air with a vague gesture—"this indiscriminate, relentless pursuit of the flesh ... well, it's too much. You have gone too far this time, Jack. Don't you think you ought to return to Pemworth and nurse your wounds somewhat less publicly?"

"Shut up, Sedge. I'll behave any damned way I see fit. It is none of your concern—"

"We have been friends for too many years, Jack, for it not to concern me. It makes me sick to watch you sink so low. Besides, your poor mother is still repining over your departure—"

"What do you know of my mother?" Jack interrupted sharply.

"I have just left her. I—"

"Just left Pemworth? You have been there this whole time?"

"Yes, along with many of the other guests. Your Uncle Edward's wedding did perk up your mother's spirits for a while, but she—"

"Uncle Edward's
what
?"

"His wedding. Did you not know? No, of course you would not. I don't suppose there has been any announcement yet. But surely your mother wrote to you with the news?"

Jack stared slack-jawed at Sedgewick. The drink must have addled his brain. He could not have heard correctly. "Uncle Edward is married?"

"Yes." Jack caught the gleam of white teeth in the moonlight as the famous grin slowly stole across his friend's face, crinkling up his eyes into slits. "He married Mrs. Bannister."

"Olivia Bannister? Good God!"

"Apparently they came to an understanding after … after Lady Mary left. By the time they came back to the house with their announcement, you had already bolted."

"Damnation. I had no idea."

Sedgewick laughed. "Neither did anyone else. Except, perhaps, for your mother. She was the only one who did not appear goggle-eyed with shock. Anyway, we all stayed put while your uncle hared off to Exeter to locate a bishop and a special license. Took some doing, apparently. They were finally married a week ago, and are off to someplace or other in Hertfordshire."

"My grandfather's hunting box at Datching."

"Aye, that's the place."

"Good Lord." Jack shook his sore head slowly back and forth. "I suppose I really ought to have read all those letters of Mother's. But I always assumed they were about..." He reached up to run a limp hand through his hair. "I cannot believe it. My dissolute, debauched, womanizing old roué of an uncle settling down with a respectable, middle-aged woman. It's incredible."

Sedgewick arched an eyebrow. "Yes, well that's why I stayed at Pemworth. And as I said, the wedding cheered your mother for a time, but she still broods about you and ... well, and about Mary. But, good Lord, if she hears how you have been carrying on—"

"It is none of her business, just as it is none of yours, my friend."

"Look, Jack. I know—more than most, I think—I know how you were hurt by Mary's departure. But you must see you are not handling it in the best way. You have made a bigger mess of the thing through your own outrageous behavior. Good God, Jack— all those women ..."

"Leave off, Sedge."

"But—"

"I said, leave off." Jack knocked for the driver to stop. He opened the door and stepped out onto Piccadilly. "I do not need your advice on how to run my life, Sedge. And I would appreciate it if you would keep your nose out of my affairs. But thank you for the word on Uncle Edward. I shall write to Mama asking for all the news. Good night to you." He closed the door on Sedgewick's frowning face and signaled the driver to move on.

Jack watched the hackney continue toward St. James's Street, and then he turned and headed in the opposite direction. The news of Uncle Edward's marriage had an oddly unsettling effect on him. He considered how his own marriage might have transformed yet another aging roué into something more respectable. Aging, indeed. He suddenly felt very old and very tired. What he needed was a little rejuvenating activity.

He turned onto Princes Street and up the steps of a well-known establishment whose proprietress specialized in fresh-faced young girls.

Chapter 21

Mary wrapped her heavy woolen shawl more tightly about her shoulders against the early autumn chill. The crisp air, fragrant of the sea and the mulch of dried leaves, felt good against her face. She had grown to love the dramatic scenery of this isolated stretch of the Scottish coast. She stood on a heavily wooded hill overlooking the bay and admired the view of a ruined abbey perched atop the opposite shore. This area of coastline was dotted with abbey and castle ruins, and she had done much exploring during the last month. But this particular view, with the ghostly black shapes of the ruin silhouetted against the orange and purple sky of early sunset, waves crashing against the savage rocky cliffs below, never failed to inspire awe. She wished she had a talent for drawing or painting, for such a sight ought to be captured for eternity.

She suddenly realized, with a small burst of pride, that she had not thought of Jack once all day. She had spent the day—the first day without rain this week—tramping along the countryside near Glennoch, and had become so immersed in the beauty and wonder of autumn in this part of Scotland that she had forgotten to think of Jack and all that had happened last month.

I shall conquer your memory yet, Lord Pemerton
, she thought, a satisfied smile on her face.

Generally, every time she walked along the coastline, she was reminded of Pemworth and of Jack. Although the setting of Glennoch was more rugged and hilly, there were certain similarities between this shore and that of South Devon: the dramatic juxtaposition of woods and coast; the pattern of tiny bays, narrow inlets, and deep creeks leading into the woodlands; the steep, rocky cliffs interspersed with sandy coves.

All these things, though unique to this part of Scotland, nevertheless reminded her often enough of Devon. And of Jack.

The journey north and the following week or so had been difficult at best, with her emotions fragile and raw. Once at Glennoch, she had given into them, letting go of all inhibitions, allowing her despair to run its course. She had cried until she thought she would die. She had raged and sulked and fretted and lamented. Oh, she had known failure before, to be sure. This absurd tendency to allow overly charming gentlemen to convince her that she was something other than what she had always known herself to be was apparently a pattern she was doomed to repeat if she was not more cautious. But then, the failure of her elopement with Peter Morrison had not been entirely due to false expectations, but rather to underestimating her father. This time, with Jack, it had been all her own fault. She had allowed herself to be duped, seduced, and manipulated, all against her better judgment. And so she grieved the loss of the illusion of love and happiness.

The McAdoos had been wonderful. Mrs. McAdoo—a round apple-cheeked woman of indeterminate age, with wisps of wiry, gray-sprinkled red hair peeking out from beneath a huge mob-cap—was a gregarious, cheerful sort, who had made Mary feel welcome and comfortable from the start. Mary had initially admitted to Mrs. McAdoo only that she was convalescing from a nervous condition. Not entirely inaccurate, as it happened. But the wily Scottish woman was not fooled.

" 'Tis a man what sent ye runnin', I be willin' to bet," she had said.

When Mary had protested, Mrs. McAdoo had waved her hands, palms out, in a gesture of denial. "Now, my lady," she said, "ye canna hide that look in yer eyes. 'Tis yer heart what needs healin', not yer nerves." She had leaned closer and lowered her voice. "Ye're no increasin', are ye?"

"Heavens, no!" Mary replied.

"Weel, then," Mrs. McAdoo continued, "thank the gude Lord fer that, anyhow. Now, dinna be worritin' aboot a thing, milady. Ye just have yerself a gude cry and fergit the bleedin' rascal. Ye'll be awright soon enou. Ye've a gude, sound head on yer shoulders and dinna need any man to tell ye how to go on."

And so Mrs. McAdoo, bless her heart, had left Mary alone to suffer in her own way. She seemed to know instinctively when Mary needed quiet and solitude or when she craved company and conversation. During the latter times, Mrs. McAdoo could become a regular magpie. She could go on for hours with tales of the history and people of Galloway that often held Mary spellbound. She was pleased, though, to learn of the rather insular, private nature of the local people. Rural and isolated, they were generally suspicious of outsiders and would therefore leave Mary alone.

She blessed the dowager daily for sending her to Glennoch. This time alone, away from anything or anyone familiar, had been exactly what she needed. Those tumultuous emotions of the first weeks, which had threatened to engulf her to the point of madness, had at last subsided. One morning she had caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror and had been stunned at the stranger's face staring back at her: cheeks pulled and gaunt from lack of food, vacant eyes bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles, hair wild and matted and hanging about her shoulders.

"Enough," she had told the unfamiliar reflection. "Enough self-pity. Enough obsession with pain. It is time to live again."

Using all the strength and resilience that had allowed her to make a life for herself after her father's death, she had begun the slow process of healing. She had begun to play again, the music acting as a balm to her soul, even though the instrument was old and harshly tuned. She could lose herself in the fury or the sorrow or the joy of the notes, but always returned to a kind of restful calm afterward. She had also begun to spend a lot of time outdoors, when it wasn't raining, and the sights and smells, sounds and color of nature had brought another sort of peace. She walked and walked and walked, until her muscles ached and her feet were blistered. And though everywhere she walked seemed to remind her in some way of Jack, the memories brought less pain these days. She still was not quite ready to face the world and all its questions, but she had reached a sort of acceptance within herself and felt stronger each day.

Congratulating herself again on the more than six hours without thinking of Jack every fifteen minutes or so, Mary turned away from the bay and began the walk back to Glennoch.

Perhaps tomorrow, my lord, I shall make it through the entire day.

Smiling and feeling more content than she had since leaving Pemworth, Mary wound her way through the woodlands, playfully kicking at piles of dried leaves as she followed the path back to the house.

* * *

As his carriage came to a stop at the graveled entrance to Pemworth, Jack could not help but remember the last time he had arrived, almost six weeks ago. He had been so pleased and proud to watch Mary's excitement and admiration as she caught her first glimpse of Pemworth. Today, all he saw was a shabby old pile of pink stone and unkempt, overgrown, neglected gardens. Memories of that last visit weighed heavily on him, and Jack found it difficult to drag himself out of the carriage.

Finally, heaving a resigned sigh, he jumped down, mounted the entry steps, and entered the Great Hall. It was empty and dark and quiet. Alicia, Charlotte, and their girls would have returned to their own homes after Uncle Edward's wedding. His mother was all alone in this big, empty house. He swallowed past an odd lump in his throat as he recalled how lively and happy this house had been while Mary had been here, bringing a new energy to the old place, and to his family, after all the grief of the previous year.