To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (31 page)

"If you'll pardon me, madam, but I haven't the slightest idea what I've done-"

"What you've done? No, I don't suppose you would
think you've done anything wrong, would you? I suppose you thought your wife would never know about
your activities in Jermyn Street, that you could continue
on with-"

"Jermyn Street?" He felt the blood drain from his
face. "What the hell-pardon me, but what do you
know of Jermyn Street?"

"We were there, today, Eleanor and I. We met your
Miss Delacorte."

"Didn't I tell you that you could not go there?"
Henley blustered, an angry flush climbing his neck. "I
specifically said-"

"I know you did, Henley, and I am so terribly sorry
for having disobeyed you. If only you'd told me why we
could not go there .. " Selina broke into sobs, muffling
them with her handkerchief.

Frederick cleared his throat loudly. "And just what
did Miss Delacorte tell you?" he snapped, a terrifying
fear clutching his heart.

"Just that ... that you were not at home at present.
And she showed us the bracelet. It was dreadful-you
should have seen Eleanor's face when she saw it. Her
heart is near enough broken, thanks to you"

The bracelet? What in God's name was she talking
about?

"I thought you were dealing with that ... ahem ...
situation?" Henley shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable as he patted his wife on the shoulder. "There now,
love. Don't cry," he murmured.

"That situation had been dealt with. Just this morning. I cannot believe Molly would lead Eleanor to believe otherwise" But even as he said the words he
realized their absurdity. Of course she would, out of
desperation, perhaps, or simply mean-spiritedness.
Given the opportunity, Molly would have done her
damnedest to ruin his life, for retribution's sake. Bloody
hell, it wasn't as if he'd ever expected the two women to
meet. And damn Henley for telling his wife the direction. What in God's name had the man been thinking?

"Lady Henley, you must believe that any association
between myself and Mol-Miss Delacorte-was ended
by me just this morning. It was the first and only contact I've had with the woman since I came to Town, and
I made it perfectly clear where I stood on the matter."

Lady Henley glared at him across the distance that
separated them. "If you ended your association, why
would you give her the bracelet, just this morning, she
claims? A perfect match to Eleanor's ring."

The bracelet? No. Damn it all to hell, no. His stomach pitched as he remembered the ruby and diamond
bracelet he'd bought along with the matching betrothal
ring. He'd given Molly the bracelet before he'd left
Town, to placate her. A meaningless gift, which was
why he had entirely forgotten it.

"I gave it to her long ago, before I traveled to Essex.
Before I'd even become reacquainted with Eleanor. It
meant nothing-"

"Why should I believe you?" She shook her head, her
lace cap fluttering wildly about her ears. "And why ever
should Eleanor?"

"You would believe the words of a whore over
mine?" Frederick roared, furious at himself, at Henley.
At everyone, damn it.

"Oh!" Lady Henley gasped, her face turning white.
"You must go, sir. At once. Henley, please," she begged,
looking entreatingly to her husband.

"Go upstairs, Selina, dearest," Henley said, nodding
toward the stairs. "Allow me to see Mister Stoneham
out."

Without another word, Lady Henley dashed out, sobbing as she went.

Frederick turned on Henley, his entire body shaking
with rage. "Why the bloody hell would you tell her about Jermyn Street? I told you I would see to that as
soon as possible."

"I say, old man, I thought you were. I hold Lady
Eleanor in the highest regard, and I will not stand for
you trifling with her. If there is a word of truth to-"

"You believe her, then? You honestly think I gave
Molly an expensive gift-a piece of jewelry just this
morning? That I planned to keep Molly around a bit
longer, to enjoy both a kept mistress and a wife? You believe I would do that to Eleanor?"

"You would not be the first man to do so," Henley
said with a shrug. "But Lady Eleanor is Selina's dearest
friend, and I cannot allow-"

"Damn you, man!" Frederick advanced on him, one
finger thrust accusingly toward his chest. "I though you
of all people knew-that you understood just what I felt
for Eleanor. You think I would risk something that precious on someone like Molly? On anyone?"

"Look, old boy," Henley said, his tone placating. "I
do believe you. Nonetheless, I think you should go.
Now. Tomorrow I will take Selina and Lady Eleanor
home, and you can finish your business here in Town.
We can sort it all out when you get to Essex. In the
meantime, I'll try to smooth things over on your behalf."

Frederick only shook his head, attempting to staunch
the rage that threatened to overcome him. "Damn it, I'm
through with all of you. How many times must I prove
myself, to her, to you?" he bellowed, his mind a clouded
mess. Again and again, Eleanor doubted him, as did
everyone else. Well, damn her to hell. Damn them all to
hell.

He stormed out of the drawing room, pausing at the
bottom of the stairs. "Enough, Eleanor Ashton. Do you
hear me?" He pounded a fist on the wall, so hard that a
mirror rattled off the moldings and smashed to bits on the marble by his feet. "I'm through proving myself worthy.
Run back to Essex, but do not expect me to come chasing
after you. I'm finished with this. With you."

With that, he grabbed his hat from the hall stand and
shoved it onto his head before flinging open the front
door. It banged against the wall, splintering loudly as he
stormed down the stairs and onto the walk. He needed
to find a public house, and quickly. All he could think
of was getting himself thoroughly and mind-numbingly
foxed, as soon as possible.

If everyone was going to think him a debauched, immoral wastrel no matter what he did to prove otherwise,
then, by God, he might as well enjoy it. And to hell with
the rest.

Eleanor glanced out the church's window at the
sky-a heavy, dull gray, just like her heart. Pulling her
wrap about her shoulders, she leaned back against the
hard wooden pew, doing her best to concentrate on the
vicar's sermon. Something about resisting vice? How
very, fitting, she thought, endeavoring once more to concentrate on the man's impassioned speech.

It was no use. Her mind was elsewhere, as it had been
these many weeks since she'd returned home to Covington Hall. How many had it been? She'd lost count. More
than a moon, she realized, her gaze straying back to the
window. She shivered as a chill worked its way down
her spine, drawing gooseflesh on her skin.

Just as Frederick had threatened, he had not come
chasing after her. True to his word, he remained in
London. Apparently he'd sent a message to his father,
indicating that he would not honor the betrothal contract, that he wished the agreement annulled. Eleanor
had finally worked up the courage to tell her papa the same, that she would not marry Frederick Stoneham if
he were the last eligible man in all of England.

Lord Worthington had been furious. Papa had assured
the man that he did not wish the match if both parties
were no longer in full agreement. There would be no
breach of promise suit, no resentment, no recriminations.

She'd wanted to kiss her father, for proving to her that
her own welfare-her happiness-was more important
to him than the bargain he'd struck with the baron. Still,
Papa had seemed saddened, as if he'd somehow failed
her. He retreated to his study now more than ever, his
nose more often than not in a book. Greek philosophy,
most likely. His favorite. Whatever the case, no more
had been said about marriage. Not to Frederick, nor to
anyone else.

She glanced over at her mama, sitting beside her now
in her elegant Sunday silks, her mouth pressed into a
tight line. Though her own father had been a vicar,
Mama did not enjoy religious services. Still, her position in society often compelled her to attend, and Mama
was not one to jeopardize her position. She had insisted
that Eleanor accompany her that morning, and she'd
readily agreed, thinking it might serve as a muchneeded distraction.

Apparently she'd been wrong on that count. Indeed,
all she'd done since taking her seat there on the pew was
worry over her future-a dangerous occupation, in her
current state. She hadn't any idea how much her parents
knew of the events that had transpired in Devon, and
then in London. She had categorically refused to speak
of them to anyone, even Selina. To do so would force
her to revisit a series of emotions she hoped to never
again suffer through.

Instead she'd pushed it all as far from her mind as possible, remaining numb, detached from her true self. It was all she could do, really-an act of self-preservation.
For if she allowed herself to think of him, to think of his
betrayal, she'd go mad. The pain was still too fresh,
too raw.

Fingering her reticule, her thoughts shifted to the
letter her mama had handed her just before they'd left
for services that same morning. From Mister Whitby,
whom she had been corresponding with these past few
weeks. She'd not yet had a chance to read it, but his letters always brought her a measure of comfort. They
served as a reminder that something good had come
from her trip to Whitby Hall-a friendship of sorts,
even if an odd one.

These past few weeks she'd considered how she
would respond if Mister Whitby renewed his offer of
marriage. He'd alluded to it briefly in his last correspondence, and she'd indicated in return that she might be receptive to such an offer. She was eager to read his reply,
yet anxious all at once. Would her future be settled, at
last?

And even if it were, would she be content with it, a
marriage of convenience, of mutual commiseration?
Could she forget Frederick, without having ever allowed
him to explain? Selina had relayed to her in detail exactly what he'd said that last night in London, that Miss
Delacorte had lied, that he'd never betrayed her. Still, to
have come face to face with the woman whose bed he
had shared, whose very livelihood he had funded in
return for her sexual favors ... No, she could not bear
to think of it.

Still, she could not help but wonder if he had been
telling the truth. She supposed she would never know,
as Frederick remained in Town, and she in Essex. Besides, if he had been innocent, if Miss Delacorte had
indeed egregiously misrepresented the situation, he would have come for her by now, wouldn't he? A man
in love would have done so, she reasoned, nodding to
herself. The fact that he hadn't was proof he did not.
Proof that he had gone on with his life. As she should
be doing with hers, she told herself, glancing down at
the outline of Mister Whitby's letter against the silk of
her reticule, her vision suddenly blurred.

Oh, blast it! She had not cried, not once in all these
weeks, and now her eyes dampened dangerously, right
there in the church for everyone to see. The sudden need to
get out, to breathe the fresh autumn air overwhelmed her.

When the congregation rose to recite a prayer not five
minutes later, she was afforded the perfect opportunity
to escape.

"Mama," she whispered, leaning close to her
mother's ear. "I'm feeling suddenly ill. I must go"

"I'm to have tea with the vicar's wife after services.
Your father insisted. I cannot leave now," she whispered
back harshly.

"I can go alone, Mama, on foot. A brisk walk in the
cool air will no doubt revive me"

"Go on, then," she murmured with a scowl. "But be
quick, as it looks like rain"

Eleanor nodded, then quickly made her exit, ignoring
the curious glances the villagers cast her way as she
scurried down the aisle and into the vestibule. In seconds she was hurrying down the lane, glancing up worriedly at the threatening sky.

It did look as if it were going to rain, and she had
nothing for protection save her heavy woolen cloak. She
quickened her pace, thinking that perhaps this had not
been such a good idea, after all. In fine weather, Covington Hall was a good half-hour's walk from the old
stone church. Were it to rain, she would be soaked to the
bone long before she reached home.

Not a quarter hour later, it began to drizzle. Fustian.
She paused to pull her hood up over her bonnet, shivering as the icy rain pricked her face. As she trudged
onward, the drizzle became a downpour, the lane turning to mud beneath her half boots.

Up ahead, across the wooden bridge that spanned the
river, she spied a copse of willows by the side of the
road. That would have to do.

Taking a deep breath, she dashed the entire length of
the bridge and ducked beneath the bare, drooping
branches just as the sound of thundering hooves appeared from nowhere.

Please, let it be someone I know. Someone who
would take pity on her and offer her a ride home. She
stepped out from under the trees' protection, just as the
horse and rider appeared over the crest. In seconds, they
were upon her, the horse's hooves clattering across the
bridge's wooden planks.

Reaching up on her tiptoes, she waved wildly, hoping
to be seen despite the heavy, cloaking mist. The rider
raced past in a blur of billowing camel greatcoat, then
wheeled the enormous beast around, back toward her.

"What the devil?" the man called out, tugging his tall
beaver hat lower on his brow before swinging down to
the ground and tossing the horse's reins across its back.

Frederick? Dear lord, no. She took a step back in astonishment. No, her senses must be playing tricks on
her-cruel tricks.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed, stepping out
into the road like that?" he bellowed, moving closer.
"The visibility is next to nothing."