June Calvin (12 page)

Then Deborah, too, was treated to the sight of her daughter dashing up the stairs ahead of a bout of weeping.

Chapter 12

A loud knock followed by raised masculine voices awoke Deborah from a sound sleep the next morning. Groaning, she consulted the clock on her mantel. It was but nine, a most unfashionable hour for anyone to be calling during the season.

Her maid bustled into the room, alarm on her face. “That there Lord Morton be below, demanding to see you instantly. The old reprobate!”

“Let him demand. I do not owe him obedience.” Deborah pulled the covers up to her chin, her defiance masking alarm.

“Nay, my lady.” Her old retainer smiled sadly at her. “You must go down before he causes a scandal with his bellowing. He first demanded to see Miss Jennifer, calling her his bride-to-be. Then he asked for you.”

“Wh-what?” Deborah sat upright, horror washing over her. She threw aside the covers, terror lending speed to her morning toilet, before hurrying down the stairs to enter the drawing room, where Morton paced in front of the fireplace.

“Lord Morton?”

Corsets creaking, Morton hastily approached her, trying to catch up her hands as he asked, “Dearest Deborah! Did you miss me? I returned as soon as I could.”

Pulling away from him and primming her mouth, Deborah responded with asperity, “I had absolutely no idea that you were gone! I am extremely busy this morning, sir. Please state your business and then leave.”

“Hoity-toity, madam. Once you hear what I have to say, you will not be so eager to send me away!” Morton drew himself up, savoring this moment of triumph. “Please be so good as to send for Miss Silverton. I wish to pay my addresses to her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Deborah retorted, trying to affect a laugh, though she was quaking inside.

“Nothing ridiculous about it! I’ve decided to make her my second wife. A charming stepmother she’ll make to my sons, don’t you think?” Morton grinned slyly at her.

Suddenly all of Deborah’s innate caution was overwhelmed by fury at the sheer effrontery of this statement. “You are quite mad, sirrah, if you think I’d let my precious daughter marry an aging degenerate such as yourself.”

“Mind your words, madam.” Morton’s face purpled, and he sprang toward her, fists upraised.

“Oh, yes. You would hit me, wouldn’t you. You and Seymour, just alike, so brave in combat with females and servants. Get out! And never come here again!”

“But soon I shall have every right to run tame in this house, not that it signifies, for you both shall be living in mine.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a folded bit of parchment.

“I have Vincent’s permission to pay my addresses to your daughter. As this letter makes clear, she has no choice but to accept my suit. Now be so good as to have her brought here immediately.” He waved the note under Deborah’s nose.

She snatched it from his hand with trembling fingers and smoothed it to read, in Vincent’s unmistakable spidery hand:

My Dear Sister-in-law:

I know I said you might select Jennifer’s husband this season, but Lord Morton has made a most satisfactory offer in all respects, and I cannot think of any reason why I should not accept it. I have therefore given him leave to offer for her, and I give you notice that she must accept him forthwith. As Lord Morton is an impatient bridegroom, I have given him permission to wed her by special license as soon as may be.

Sincerely,

Vincent

Deborah felt the room tilt. A sort of blackness veiled her vision. “This can’t be. Why, you are three times her age, if nothing else. Why would Vincent . . .”

“True. She will be like a daughter to me in many ways. Including the fact that her mother and I shall be, ah, how shall I say it,
très intime.
” Morton’s fleshy features spread in an unmistakable leer.

Deborah drew back as if a snake had struck at her. “You vile, base creature . . .”

“Yes, rage at me, beauteous Deborah. It adds a piquant spice to the conquest.” Morton closed the distance between them, his thick hands closing brutally over her shoulders. “You’ll soon see that I know how to tame you, better than Seymour ever did.”

Deborah twisted free of his painful grip and slapped him. Shaking in every limb with fury, she stormed at him. “Seymour was a monster and so are you. I’ll ruin you in the
ton
if you ever so much as breathe on me or my daughter. Seymour was not above bragging about some of your disgusting orgies. I can make all of society turn its back on you.”

Jowls shaking with fury, Morton hissed at her, “Listen to me, you bitch. I have permission from your brother-in-law to wed your daughter without delay, and wed her I shall, this very day. And then, Deborah—listen well!” He raised his voice when she began to speak. “The kind of treatment she shall have as a wife will depend very much on how you treat me.” Morton’s voice thundered with purpose. “Do I make myself clear?”

All color drained from Deborah’s face. He meant it! This obscene old man meant to marry her daughter and force her into being his mistress.
This is a nightmare. I have to have some time to think.
Deborah took a deep breath, willing herself calm. With iron self-control, she replied, “Yes, very clear.”

A wolfish smile lit Morton’s features. “That’s better. You are an intelligent female, who knows when she’s been mastered. Come here, Deborah.” He pointed to the floor directly in front of him.

Reluctantly, Deborah obeyed. He thrust a hurtful hand into her hair, holding her head steady for a crushing kiss. His other hand invaded the front of her dress, hard and cruel in its exploration of her soft curves.

After interminable minutes, Morton drew away, breathing heavily. “That’s much better, my dear. Now send for Jennifer. I wish the two of you to accompany me as I go for a special license.”

Deborah rearranged her clothes, willing herself not to throw up at his feet. “Yes, Lord Morton. She is still asleep. I must wake her, and we both must dress suitably for this auspicious occasion.”

Morton grinned triumphantly. “I knew you would see reason, dearest Deborah. Do not take too long, though. I have an appointment with the archbishop.”

Deborah forced herself to give him a respectful curtsy before quitting the room. As she climbed the steps, her racing mind in sharp contrast to her slow progress, she tried to decide what she must do.

Jennifer was deep in slumber, her soft mouth slightly open, her hair curling out of its braids. It seemed cruel to awaken her from such sound, innocent sleep for such a horrifying reason, but there was no time to waste. Deborah shook her daughter by the shoulder until her eyes fluttered open, then urged her up. Betty was already laying out a walking dress and matching pelisse.

“Make haste, Jennifer. We must leave immediately.”

She quickly explained part of the situation to her daughter as she helped Betty to dress her. She did not tell Jennifer that Morton intended to force Deborah into his bed with threats to harm his young wife. It was terrible enough to Jennifer to hear that he expected to marry her.

When they were finished, Deborah turned to her servant. “You come with us, Betty.”

Betty nodded. “I’ll get me cloak, mum. And a change of clothes, shall I?”

“Yes, and get my jewel case.”

“Where are we to go, Mother?” Still a little groggy with sleep, Jennifer’s brown eyes were large with anxiety.

Deborah passed her hand over her brow. “I don’t know. I can’t think. I only know we mustn’t stay here.” She was throwing a change of clothes for Jennifer into a carpetbag as she talked.

“I know. We shall go to Sarah’s.”

Deborah stopped and straightened up. “I don’t know. The duke is such a proper gentleman; I don’t know if he would countenance a girl running from her guardian. I’ve avoided scandal all my life, but I can’t avoid this one. Still, I hesitate to involve another family in it.”

Jennifer shook her head. “Mother, I don’t believe for a moment the duke would allow me to be forced to wed Lord Morton.”

Deborah thought a moment, and then nodded. “He may not be best pleased to be placed in such a situation, but I think he will stand our friend. Perhaps he will help me sell my jewels, or . . . I suppose the first thing to do is talk to Vincent. We must go! Quickly, now.” She helped Jennifer into a voluminous cloak.

The three women tiptoed down the servants’ stairs, carpetbags in hand. A couple of servants looked at them curiously, but none attempted to stop them. Once outside, they hurried back through the mews rather than risk being spied by Lord Morton’s tiger, sure to be walking his horses in the front of the house.

They traversed the few blocks to the duke’s mansion so fast that Deborah got a stitch in her side and had to be assisted up the steps by her elderly maid, who was also breathing heavily.

Just as they reached the top, Jennifer turned back. “I forgot Mittens!”

Deborah took her firmly by the arms. “She’ll be all right with Cook in the kitchen. You can’t go back there, dearest. We’ll retrieve her when all of this is settled.”

Jennifer looked as if she would argue for a moment, then slumped against her mother. “Yes, Mother,” she whispered, biting her lip to keep the tears at bay.

Timmons’s expression carefully masked any surprise he may have felt at this early visit. “His Grace is not at home just now, my lady. Would you like to wait?”

Deborah allowed him to seat them in the blue salon and agreed gratefully to a tea tray.

“Is Lady Sarah awake, Timmons?” Jennifer asked.

“No, miss. Still abed. She came in quite late last night, you know.” There was a very faint sound of reproach in Timmons’s voice.

“So did I!” Suddenly, the alarums of the last thirty minutes caught up with Jennifer, and she burst into tears.

“When do you expect the duke to return, Timmons?” Deborah spoke to him as she cradled Jennifer against her shoulder.

“Not until around noon, my lady.” Timmons bowed at her and then left the room.

Deborah comforted her daughter while she thought.
What am I to do? I must reason with Vincent, but what if I can’t convince him? I must keep Jennifer away from him.

Just then John Warner, only this day returned from his visit to the Pelhams to investigate Alexander Meade, strolled in. Timmons, worried by the obvious distress of the three women, had asked him to look into the matter. “May I be of service, Lady Cornwall?” he asked, his sympathetic glance traveling from Deborah’s anxious countenance to Jennifer’s tearstained face.

“Oh, J . . . Mr. Warner.” Jennifer jumped up. “You must help us. Lord Morton intends to marry me. That odious man has gotten my uncle’s permission, and . . .”

“Never!” Shock and determination were equally present in John’s firm reply as he took Jennifer’s outstretched hands in his.

A few minutes of conversation placed John in possession of the facts and induced him to agree readily to Deborah’s hastily contrived plan. “I will leave Jennifer here. None must know she is here, though. I will go to Woodcrest, try to make Vincent see reason. If he won’t . . .” Her voice quavered.

“He will. And if you cannot, I am sure the duke can make him understand just how odious such a match is.”

Together they consulted the posting inn schedules in John’s possession. Woodcrest was not too far off the major coaching routes, near the Welsh border. Finding that a fast coach was leaving within the hour, Deborah determined to be on it. “Do you think Harwood will be angry if I leave my daughter here while I travel? I don’t want to take the chance that Vincent will physically remove Jennifer from my custody.”

John shook his head. “I know he would want her to stay here, though I fear he will not like you to travel alone. If you would delay your departure until this evening, perhaps the duke or I can accompany you.”

“I’d best go right away. It takes two days to reach Woodcrest, providing the roads are dry.” It was perhaps cowardly, but Deborah liked the idea of leaving before the duke had a chance to say no. “Morton had already begun the process of obtaining a special license. There is no time to lose.”

John could only agree. He ordered a carriage around from the mews to take Lady Cornwall to the posting inn. “Do you require any funds?”

“No, I brought along my quarterly allowance.” Deborah lifted up a heavy reticule. “Indeed, I had best leave some of this here, rather than tempt fate by traveling with my entire fortune.” She essayed a smile, but realized with a sense of shame that Mr. Warner pitied her for having so few resources.

“I’m coming with you,” Betty announced as Deborah rose to leave.

“No, you need to stay and look after Jennifer.”

“I’m thinking that she’ll not lack for those to look after her.” Betty cast a meaningful look at John.

“She is right, Lady Cornwall. Between Sarah, Harwood, and myself, Miss Silverton will be well looked after. But you risk unwelcome consequences if you travel without a maid.”

Deborah hesitated. Last night the idea of Jennifer being looked after by Mr. Warner would have been alarming to her. But today it seemed the lesser catastrophe.

“All right then. Jenny, stay indoors until I return. Do not give Morton a chance to snatch you away.”

“No, Mama, I won’t.” Jennifer hugged her mother tearfully. “You be careful.”

“Go upstairs now. Mr. Warner, would you have one of your maids prepare her a room? She got very little rest last night, and if she could sleep now, it would do her a world of good.”

“Oh, Mama, I couldn’t sleep now.”

“I will see to it, Lady Cornwall,” John reassured her.

Looking back doubtfully at the two before descending the steps, she saw them framed in the doorway, two solemn-faced young people standing a little too close to one another. A twinge of unease assailed her. But the coach was at the door, and time was passing. Abruptly turning, she ran down the steps, cloak flying behind her, and followed Betty into the carriage.

Chapter 13

When the Duke of Harwood returned from his meeting, it was nearly noon. His butler urgently directed him to the blue salon. Timmons’s manner alerted Harwood that something unusual was in the offering, but he still was not prepared for the sight that greeted him. John Warner was seated on a sofa with his back to the duke, and the golden-brown hair fanned out over his shoulder suggested that he was not alone.

John turned his head. Seeing the duke, he raised a finger to his lips in warning. Harwood silently rounded the sofa and then stopped in astonishment. Jennifer Silverton, disheveled and with tear tracks on her cheeks, was curled in the crook of John’s arm, fast asleep.

Carefully easing her away from him and then guiding her to a reclining position, John tucked a cushion under Jennifer’s head before motioning the duke to follow him to the other end of the room. In a hoarse whisper he explained the events of the morning.

“And after her mother left, she succumbed to a fit of the vapors, and told me that she suspected something even worse, even more sinister afoot than her mother had been willing to tell us.”

Harwood frowned, stroking his chin. “Did she have any idea . . .”

“No. She is too innocent, but my guess is that he plans to force Lady Cornwall into his bed once he has her daughter in his power.”

“It sounds like some Gothic romance! Surely it is only the child’s money he covets.” But the duke paused, remembering Morton’s behavior toward Deborah and her obvious revulsion at his advances.
Perhaps it is possible. Such villainy, right here in London in modern times!

“Well, he shan’t get away with it,” Harwood growled. “I wish Deborah had waited for me. I don’t like to think of her traveling on a public conveyance, and I would have liked to accompany her to see Cornwall.”

“You could catch her, I suppose. Even a fast flyer can’t travel faster than a man on horseback.”

Harwood nodded, frowning. “Or is my presence here more important? I must give this some thought. In the meantime, let us take the child upstairs and get her into a proper bed. She needs some coddling now.”

John gently lifted Jennifer. He was surprised at how light she felt in his arms. Mounting the stairs with his precious burden, he felt his heart swell in his breast. He loved her! Unwise, ill-timed, impossible love!

Jennifer roused as he mounted the steps with her. She stiffened in surprise for a moment, then, relishing this closeness as much as John, she murmured and dropped her head against his chest again, feigning a return to sleep so she might continue in his arms a little while longer.

A maid was summoned to prepare a bed and assist Jennifer in undressing. John gently, reluctantly relinquished the half-awake girl and then stepped into the hall with Harwood, only to find him in whispered conversation with Sarah.

Sarah had been lying abed this morning. Aware that her father had an early meeting, she had slept late and then ordered a tray with chocolate and toast brought to her room. She had been unaware of the events below until she opened her door, fully dressed and determined to take a long walk to clear the cobwebs from her mind.

Her father quickly, quietly told her what he thought she needed to know, and then informed her of his intention to pursue Lady Cornwall. To his surprise his daughter objected.

“No, Papa, you haven’t thought. If I cease going about in society, Lord Morton may guess that she is here. And . . . oh! dear! Jennifer’s first evening at Almack’s is to be this Wednesday. Such talk if she misses it!”

Harwood scowled. His daughter had the right of it. It would be best for Jennifer’s future if she could continue to follow her social calendar. A sudden absence would be noticed and lead to talk.

“That’s true,” he admitted. “I expect I had best escort you and Jennifer just as if nothing had happened.”

John rang in with an objection. “Morton will know where she is, then.”

A mirthless smile lifted one corner of Harwood’s mouth. “Morton will catch cold trying to claim her now, whatever Vincent does. I’ll settle him down, see if I don’t. Actually, Lady Cornwall is making an unnecessary trip. I wish I had been here when she arrived. I could have reassured her of my intention to stand by her. Morton is brave enough when it comes to intimidating a pair of females, but let us see how willing he is to come to points with me!”

Sarah threw her arms around her father, hugging him wordlessly.

“What, minx. Tears? You aren’t afraid for me, though?”

“Oh, no, Papa. I could almost pity Lord Morton! But you’re just so wonderful!”

Harwood grimaced over his daughter’s head as his eyes met John’s. Very early this morning John had returned from his visit to Lord Pelham. Would his daughter think him so wonderful if she knew he had needlessly alienated her young suitor, Alexander, whom Pelham had pronounced an excellent suitor, sound in every way, though a bit staid and bookish for Pelham’s tastes.

Pelham had laughed off any suggestion that Meade shared the lax views of Shelley on marriage. “He told me himself that he deplored the man’s behavior, though he admired his poetry,” Pelham had told John.

***

Jennifer was quite nervous about the duke’s plans to go out after her mother warned her against it. But she wanted to accompany him and John to her home to pack her wardrobe and collect Mittens. They refused, however, insisting that she stay safely in Sarah’s room until they had returned.

The Cornwall servants informed the duke that Lord Morton, purple with fury, had announced he would be back with the special license, and expected Jennifer and her mother to be there, ready for a wedding.

The duke told them to say nothing of Jennifer’s whereabouts, though he confided to John on the way home that he had very little hope the servants would keep quiet.

“Even supposing Morton too cheap to bribe them, servants love to gossip quite as much as their betters,” he observed ruefully, stroking the soft fur of the little dog curled in his lap, shedding merrily over his jacket and breeches.

In the evening Jennifer uneasily ventured forth at the duke and Sarah’s urgings, to attend the Trentons’ rout. There was such a crush that the duke led the way, opening a passage with his body. Sarah and Jennifer were sandwiched between the duke and John.

“This is disgusting,” Sarah moaned. “Why do they invite more people than can possibly fit in the house?”

“Now, Sal, you know that the only way to measure the success of a rout is by how many people are crushed in the press of the crowd.” Harwood braced himself in a doorway and motioned the girls under the space he created.

“This one seems a
succès fou
, then,” Jennifer said, giggling a little at the phenomenon of so many elegantly dressed people packed into so little space.

“I think it has passed the bounds of humor and become a dangerous situation,” John muttered, bracing himself after a sharp elbow to the ribs almost toppled him against Jennifer.

“Agreed. Let us bid our hostess farewell and . . .”

Jennifer giggled again. “We only just bid her hello.”

“That is really all that is expected of us. Sal, does this plan meet with your approval?”

Sarah nodded without enthusiasm. She had had little to say for herself this evening. Her father had explained to her that his inquiries about Lord Alexander had been satisfactorily answered. He had given her permission to further the acquaintance.

But her hopes that she would meet Alexander at the Trentons’ rout had turned to ashes when she saw him three feet away, barely glimpsed through the crowd. A scowl on his face, Alexander stood trying to listen to someone who was red-faced with the exertion of making himself heard. Next to Alexander, with his arm curved around her protectively, stood Anna-Marie Allistair.

Too late
, she thought.
Too late.
Yet she didn’t blame her father. It had probably been too late all along. Doubtless Lord Alexander had been just toying with her until his soon-to-be fiancée came to town.

Sarah made no attempt to catch his eye or speak to him. She passively allowed herself to be led through the crowd. She was more than ready to go home.

***

Lord Morton climbed the steps of the Harwood Mansion the next morning earlier than most of the
ton
considered a decent hour. When he had returned to the Cornwalls’, he waited for hours for the missing women to return, unable to believe they would have dared to defy him. Finally, he had bribed the butler to learn their whereabouts. He had gone to Harwood’s, only to learn that they had gone out.

Morton’s early arrival was to prevent the duke from claiming he or his guests weren’t at home. He was nervous about facing the duke, but after all, he had right on his side. His Grace High and Mighty could not legally prevent him from wedding Jennifer.

“His Grace is not yet receiving callers,” Timmons informed him firmly.

“He will see me, sirrah, never fear. Unless he wishes to send Lady Cornwall and Miss Silverton to me instantly, I demand to speak to him.”

With a sigh Timmons acquiesced, showing Morton into the smallest receiving room in the mansion while he conveyed news of this unwelcome visitor to the duke.

In no hurry to accommodate Morton, Harwood first made a leisurely toilet, and then ate breakfast. It was almost an hour later that he sauntered into the room in which his secretary usually received tradesmen and petitioners, giving his visitor an unwelcoming stare before closing the door.

Morton’s temper had not improved in the intervening hour. His face was mottled with anger.

“About time! If you think to put me off by rudeness—”

“Visitors at such an ungodly hour have no business to complain of delays,” Harwood snapped. “I am very busy. State your business and be off.”

Morton’s face turned a deeper crimson. “My business is my bride-to-be, whom you are keeping from me in direct defiance of her guardian’s orders. I have a special license in my pocket, and intend to be married before the morning is over. Send her down, and I will trouble you no more.”

“Whomever can you be thinking of? The only person in this house other than myself and my daughter is a friend of hers, entirely too young to be your bride.”

“Don’t toy with me, Harwood. You know that Lord Cornwall has given me permission to wed Miss Silverton.”

The duke raised a doubting eyebrow. “That cannot be. Vincent is not a fool.”

Goaded, Morton pulled Vincent’s letter from his pocket. “Here! Not that I doubt for a minute Lady Cornwall has told you of it, but read this.”

Harwood perused the letter with great interest, then raised eyes that glittered like polished steel. “It appears that I was mistaken in Vincent’s intelligence—and yours.” He folded the letter and put it into his own pocket.

“Here, now. Give that back to me!”

“Sorry I cannot oblige you. This will be very important evidence in chancery court.”

“Evidence? Ch-chancery?”

“Yes, it is chancery that protects orphans, after all.”

“I know that, Harwood, but only when there is no suitable guardian. In this case—”

“Just so. By allowing such a match, Vincent clearly proves himself unsuitable. They will have only to decide whether to assume guardianship themselves or to appoint another guardian to Miss Silverton. I, of course, shall apply.”

“Chancery has no jurisdiction here! Vincent was appointed by the girl’s father and approved by the court—”

“But he can, I assure you, be challenged and removed for just cause, of which such an infamous betrothal is surely an instance.”

“Bah!
You
may not think so, but many would believe me an excellent catch for that chit, and Cornwall to be commended for landing me.” Morton puffed out his chest and threw back his head, to better display the magnificent figure he was sure he must make to an unbiased judge.

“The court might think so. I have heard whispers that occasionally bribes are successful. But it would certainly take a substantial sum. In the meantime, the
ton
might be vastly entertained at the sight of a penniless, old, fat baron aspiring to the hand of a wealthy, beautiful young heiress who should still be in the schoolroom.”

“Your impertinence will be punished, sir!”

Suddenly Harwood looked alert. He had been lounging carelessly against the mantel of the fireplace. Now he stood straight, the half-hooded lids flashing open eagerly. “Are you challenging me, then? I should be most appreciative of the opportunity to treat this as a matter of honor.”

It was fascinating to the duke how quickly Morton’s mottled purple visage drained of color. Pale as death, the baron shook his head. “No! No! I didn’t mean that. I . . .”

“Oh! Well, then.” Losing interest, Harwood drifted toward the door. “That at least would have been quick. Instead, it is to be a battle of the purses. It will take years, doubtless eat up Jennifer’s inheritance in the process. Your lawyers and Cornwall’s against mine—a slow, expensive business.

“But mind me!” Harwood turned suddenly back to the shaken baron. “If you win, there will still be a duel to be gotten through. Put quite simply, I had much rather kill you than let you have Jennifer Silverton to wife, or her mother to mistress.”

“I can’t believe she told you . . .” Morton had been counting on the dowager viscountess’s dread of scandal to prevent her revealing the other half of his plans.

“Aha! I guessed right!” Harwood leapt across the room and grabbed Morton by his cravat, snubbing it up so that the shorter man could hardly breathe.

“I advise you to put all thoughts of Jennifer Silverton or her mother from your mind, else you are a dead man. Write Lord Cornwall today withdrawing your proposal. Do you hear me?” Harwood shook Morton like a rat.

Terrified, Morton choked out his agreement and suddenly found himself alone in the room, gasping for breath and wondering if a repairing lease in France might not be in order. Or perhaps he should look to that too-willing widow, Lydia Smithfield, for a rich wife.

The Duke of Harwood stormed out of the room and upstairs to his library. He could never remember having been so angry before. The violence of his feelings surprised him. He found himself regretting that Morton was such a cowardly worm, for his anger was so great he didn’t see how it could be quenched short of spilling that despicable man’s blood.