A Lady Betrayed (10 page)

“Always a pleasure when the two go hand in hand, Peetwee,” her father noted wryly from their hostess's other side.

“And thank God, we trounced the bloody French as well. Not that it came easily, never does in war.”

There were murmurs of agreement, and Maddie hoped that he might be silent for a while; the man seemed to have the handy talent of being able to talk clearly despite a mouthful of food.

“My nephew was in the thick of it, told me about the worst of the fighting.” While he sliced his rare roast beef, Mr. Peetwee proceeded to describe a particularly bloody engagement.

Maddie watched the red juices run out of her roast beef and felt her stomach twist as her dinner companion went on about the many wounded who had lost limbs and whose mangled bodies had littered the field. She swallowed hard.

This surely was not the most felicitous of dinnertime conversations. Poor Mrs. Calleston, Maddie thought, seeing her delicious dinner dishes go uneaten all because the heedless Mr. Peetwee, who seemed to have a digestion of iron, would bring up a topic at such an inopportune moment.

Then she happened to glance at the viscount and was startled by what she saw. His face had paled, and his expression was set, as if he kept it under control only by great effort. He also had stopped eating, though she saw that his wineglass was empty.

Feeling as if she had caught him in an instant too private for anyone, even a fiancée, to share, she looked away quickly. But as bad luck would have it, Mr. Peewee seemed to follow her glance.

“I know you were in the war, my lord,” he said, looking up the table to Lord Weller. “One of my other nephews is in the War Office; he's heard some good things about your regiment. I heard you were particularly effective in the Peninsula. Your regiment had some deep casualties, though, I'm told—a pity, that.”

Maddie held her breath. A footman bent to refill the viscount's glass, coming between him and his interrogator. When the servant straightened, Adrian seemed to have composed himself—or perhaps she had imagined the strain she'd glimpsed in his face.

“Yes,” he answered the older man, his voice quiet. “We did take some grievous losses more than once, perhaps more than our share.” His tone was somehow final, and no one had the nerve to ask more.

With relief, Maddie motioned to the footman to take away her plate—she could not face the meats and sauces tonight—and applied herself instead to some simple blancmange with candied fruits.

She did not look at the viscount again; perhaps she was making too much of one glance of strained countenance. She tried to turn her thoughts to more innocuous topics. When the footmen passed around the table with more port, and Mrs. Calleston took the ladies away, leaving the men to their wine and male conversation, Maddie thought of their two hardworking servants at home. At least with the family gone, Bess had gotten a night off, with only Thomas and herself to feed. Right now Maddie needed any good thought to sustain her because she had a sinking feeling she was about to face the most difficult part of the evening.

And indeed, in the sitting room she found the air charged with suppressed tension, and the other women waiting to attack. She felt her whole body stiffen as she sat down near the fireplace. She saw the worried glance that Mrs. Calleston gave her, but there was little her old friend could do to help. Now she was in for it!

“I hope you are quite recovered from your illness, Miss Applegate,” one matron said, fanning herself vigorously even though the room was not overly warm.

“Yes, thank you,” Maddie said, keeping her tone calm. She would not allow them to see her quail.

“Miss Applegate has suffered from these sick headaches for years, poor thing,” their hostess put in. “We have all worried about her condition.”

“You're very kind,” Maddie said. “But I am recovered. Your dinner was excellent, Mrs. Calleston. You must give your cook my compliments.”

Their hostess smiled. “Thank you, dear; she will be most pleased. I did think the white sauce turned out exceptionally well.”

But their effort to turn the conversation to another topic was to no avail.

“That night in the woods—it must have been quite an ordeal,” a second lady said, her tone arch. “How fortunate that Lord Weller should have come to your rescue.”

“Yes,” Maddie said. She allowed the word to hang in the air, folding her hands demurely in her lap and refusing to give in to the pressure she felt from the other women to continue.

“I suppose Lord Weller is a most
compassionate
man? It was certainly most fortuitous that he should be in the little wood at just the right time, in just the right place,” the first woman said. “How strange that your paths should cross.”

They thought it was a planned tryst? That was the gossip that had spread through the shire? Maddie struggled to control her temper.

“Not so strange, since there is only one path through the trees and the moor,” Maddie said. “The viscount was looking for shelter from the rain, as I was. We met in the shelter of the gazebo; the only shelter for miles around.”

“And stayed there all night, alone, together”—the matron flung the words like blows—“instead of asking him to escort you home, which was only another mile or two away. And you managed to lose all your clothing during the night hours. Really, Miss Applegate—”

“Mrs. Gates, that is too much!” Mrs. Calleston interrupted. “Miss Applegate is my guest—her mother was my dearest friend. You must not—”

Her inquisitioner let out her breath with an irate hiss. “I didn't know your mother, my dear, but I must believe it's just as well she is not here to see what a disappointment you have turned out to be.”

Feeling a flash of pure rage run through her, Maddie jumped to her feet and glared down at the other woman. “My mother would have found nothing in my conduct to disappoint her! I could not direct Lord Weller to take me home, as I was unconscious by the time he found me. He was nothing but a gentleman, trying to save me from more serious illness. And yes, he is compassionate, which is more than I can say for some of my lifelong neighbors!”

“Well, really,” Mrs. Gates said, fanning herself briskly again, but her tone had lost some of its self-righteous resolve.

“Really,” Maddie repeated, knowing that her face was flushed, but this time with anger rather than any other emotion.

The other two ladies looked embarrassed, and Mrs. Calleston grim. “I will call for a tea tray,” she muttered, and went to the bell rope.

Maddie walked away to look out the window into the shadowy garden. Her hostess came to gently touch her arm.

“Are you all right, my dear?” the older woman spoke quietly.

Maddie nodded.

“The alarming thing,” her hostess continued, “is that these are the neighbors I thought would be the most—the least—”

“I know.” Maddie sighed.

“It will all die down eventually, my dear. After your wedding, it will soon be forgotten.” Mrs. Calleston patted her arm.

“I hope so,” Maddie said.

She was more than happy when the men rejoined them, and the ladies became more circumspect in their comments. Soon after, she and her party said their farewells, as her father looked gray with fatigue.

“Are you all right, Papa?” she asked as they made their way to their carriage.

“Quite all right,” he told her, “just a bit tired.”

“What about you?” the viscount asked her quietly. “You look done in, yourself.”

“I'm somewhat fatigued, as well. We are not used to such late hours in our quiet routine, my lord.”

Her father chuckled. “You see what effect you have on our quiet and boring life, Lord Weller.”

“I hope to the good,” Adrian said, but even he seemed somewhat more subdued than usual.

Her father showed more signs of strain by the time they reached home and got him back into his chair. His complexion was pasty, and he sighed as Thomas pushed him back to his room to get ready for bed.

Maddie shook her head. “I know he enjoyed getting out of the house, but he doesn't have the energy to do this very often. I shall have to call upon Mrs. Barlow to serve as chaperone, and be thankful for such a good friend.”

He didn't respond, and she looked at him quickly. “Are you all right, my lord?”

“Of course,” he said. “A slight headache, nothing like the ones you sometimes endure.” He smiled down at her. “But I think I will retire, also, if you will forgive me.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Shall I send up some tea or a glass of port?”

“No,” he said. “But thank you.”

Maddie wondered if the talk of the battle had somehow upset him, but surely he was accustomed to hearing the war with the French discussed.

So she kept her own council and merely bid him a polite good night, then went to the kitchen to drink one last cup of tea with Bess. She knew her longtime confidant would be eager to hear how the dinner party had gone.

“I think Papa had a fine time,” she told Bess, who grinned in delight.

“I do hope so, as Thomas said 'e was proper wore out, the poor man.” Bess took a hearty gulp of her own tea, which was strong enough to stand a spoon in.

Maddie watered hers down and added a tiny bit of sugar, which was too fearfully expensive to use with abandon. “I know; we must not allow him to go out too often. I don't want to see him exhausted. But Mrs. Barlow has offered to chaperone for me, so that will serve.”

“Do ye think all the fine ladies of the shire will accept 'er as proper enough to 'ave in their parlors?” Bess demanded, wrinkling her long nose as she pondered the intricacies of social rank.

Maddie made a face. “They jolly well have to if they expect to see me and the viscount, as we will not grace their doorsteps except accompanied by Felicity!” And perhaps the widow's quick wit would help her when she had to face more verbal duels, Maddie thought, sighing. “Oh, and Lord Weller was a big hit tonight,” she added. “He charmed the ladies and delighted the gentlemen, which comes as no surprise.”

Bess wiped the already spotless table, apparently trying not to show her vicarious pride in her charge's new acquisition. “Aye, I always said 'e wasn't such a bad 'un.”

Since she had said nothing of the kind, Maddie swallowed a smile with some effort. She put down her tea. “And I am as wearied as the gentlemen. Good night, Bess. If you'll just unbutton my back buttons now, you don't have to come up.”

The maidservant protested, but Maddie was firm, and she carried up her own pitcher of warm water to wash with. In her bedchamber she was soon in her nightdress, pulling out the pins that had held her golden brown hair into the neat coil behind her head and sitting down to brush out its lustrous waves.

The house was quiet and peaceful. Bess and Thomas had gone up to their room in the attic, the door downstairs was bolted and latched, her father was surely asleep by now, and she assumed their guest must be, too.

She had turned back the bedclothes when she heard the slight sound in the hallway.

Maddie paused. Had Bess come back downstairs to check on her? Ready to scold her too conscientious servant, Maddie listened and waited. Her door didn't open, yet she could swear she had hear the shuffle of footsteps.

She picked up a shawl to toss about her shoulders and eased her door open. A short distance away, a tall figure loomed amid the shadows of the hall. She blinked in surprise.

“Lord Weller?” she asked, keeping her voice low. Surely he did not mean to offer a secret assignation; that is, surely he would have at least asked her permission before, or taken in account if she had any inclination toward—

She'd done nothing to give him permission to sneak into her bedroom!

She did not know whether to be offended or just puzzled, or even frightened—they were on the floor alone, the servants were a floor above, and her father, even if he could do anything to come to her aid, the floor below. The viscount had not seemed the kind of man who would offer her insult or do anything she did not wish. So why this sudden out of character action?

“Lord Weller?” she asked again, a little louder.

Still there was no answer.

She could not see his face in the darkness of the hall. She slipped back into her room and lit a candle, then returned to the doorway with the light. Strangely still, the figure remained in the same place.

What could be wrong?

She lifted the candlestick and came closer.

His expression was—she wasn't sure what he was thinking, but, even though his eyes were open, he didn't seem to see her. He looked straight ahead, his eyes a bit out of focus.

She took another step closer and put her hand lightly on his arm, and since the situation was strange, took refuge in formal address. “Lord Weller, are you ill?”

He still didn't seem to notice her presence, but in a moment he spoke, his voice low as if he feared for someone to hear. “Do not speak,” he said, his tone urgent. “The guns are firing.”