Authors: Mary Balogh
While he was still wrestling with this problem, Giles was interrupted.
“Ah, here you are, Giles,” said the Duke of Eversleigh. “This is the last room in the club I have thought of looking in. Are you acquiring studious habits in your rustication, dear boy?”
“Y—you were looking for me, your Grace?” stammered Giles, lowering his paper and staring aghast into the face of his brother-in-law. This was the last person he wished to see just now.
“I was merely looking for a luncheon companion,” Eversleigh explained. “It is tedious to eat alone, you know. Nothing to think about except the food.”
“Oh, yes, much obliged to you,” Giles lied, getting to his feet and wondering what Eversleigh was up to. He was a very popular figure in the club. He could attract any table companion he cared to choose.
Fifteen minutes later, the two men were cutting into large platters of veal and vegetables.
“So, dear boy,” Eversleigh said, abandoning the small talk that had occupied them thus far, “what have you found to amuse you in town?”
“Oh,” said Giles evasively, “this and that.”
“Ah. Parties?”
“Yes, some.”
“The races?”
“Not often, your Grace.”
“The muslin company?”
“Er, not too often.” Giles was feeling decidedly uncomfortable.
“Cards?”
There was a pause. “Not any longer,” Giles said finally.
“Ah,” said the duke. “Excellent veal, is it not?”
“Eversleigh, what is the purpose of this interrogation?” Giles asked, putting down his knife and fork with hands that shook slightly and looking defiantly at his companion.
“Interrogation, dear boy?” Eversleigh replied, his sleepy eyes widening for a moment. “But I suppose you are right. Tell me, Giles, has my wife been paying your debts?”
“I . . . She ...” Giles had paled again.
“You need not be afraid to speak out,” Eversleigh said gently. “I wish to protect Henry as much as I assume you do.”
“She seems uncommon afraid of you, sir,” Giles said doubtfully.
Eversleigh considered. “I think not,” he said. “I believe Henry is afraid only of herself. It irks her to know that she is a woman and might at times need to depend on a man.”
Giles laughed shakily. “You do know her rather well, your Grace,” he said with respect.
Eversleigh regarded his brother-in-law steadily. “Of course,” he said. “I happen to love her, you see. Now, tell me what you know, dear boy. I suspect that she has got herself into quite a mess.”
Giles judged it expedient to tell Eversleigh everything Philip had told him that morning.
“A moneylender,” Eversleigh mused. “Do you happen to know which one?”
“I suspect the one that I planned to go to,” Giles guessed. “I believe I mentioned his name to her. Phil would be able to take you to the place.”
“I prefer to leave the two amateur Bow Street runners out of this,” Eversleigh said dryly. “And quite soon I am going to have to reintroduce those two to the schoolroom.”
“What are you planning to do about Henry?” asked Giles.
Eversleigh favored him with a sleepy stare. “Don't worry your head about it, dear fellow,” he said. “Your sister will be safe in my care, I assure you.”
“Yes, I am sure she will be,” Giles agreed. “It was the best day's work Doug Raeburn ever did when he trapped her into that wager.”
Eversleigh’s eyebrows rose. “Wager?” he repeated.
Giles gave him a long look, then dropped his eyes to his plate. “Oh,” he said, “she did not tell you.”
“Suppose you tell me, Giles,” said Eversleigh, “so that I can know if the incident merely slipped my mind.”
“Oh, I say,” said Giles, “perhaps she don't want you to know.”
The duke continued to stare at him disconcertingly through half-closed lids.
“It was just a piece of nonsense,” Giles blurted at last. “Henry did not want to have a Season and she didn't want a husband. Then Doug Raeburn, our neighbor, you know, got her mad and wagered that she could not get an offer by a certain date—I can't remember what—from a man he would name. We decided on you.” He laughed in some embarrassment. “She won the wager.”
“Yes, indeed,” Eversleigh agreed softly, “and a certain high-perch phaeton, I believe? And you were quite right, dear boy. She had not told me.”
Giles toyed with his food for several more uncomfortable, silent minutes.
Miss Manford had her promised talk with James Ridley also during the luncheon hour. She was surprised that much of what she had to say was not news to him. She was even more surprised to find that his source of information had been the Duke of Eversleigh himself. Ridley did show concern, though, over the news that Henry had been seen to visit a moneylender in an undesirable area of London.
“The duke feared as much,” he observed. “I must tell him, Eugenia, as soon as he returns home.”
“Oh, please do not,” she pleaded, hands clasped over her bosom. “I fear the dear duchess will be in grave trouble if his Grace learns that she has been that indiscreet. Indeed, James, I should never forgive myself if I were the cause of bringing her into disgrace.”
“You do not understand, my dear,” her companion replied. “The duke seems genuinely concerned for her welfare. I believe he would be very relieved to know how he may rescue her from her difficulties.”
“I don’t know, James,” Miss Manford said. “I should feel that I had betrayed the children’s trust and dear Henry’s—I mean, her Grace’s—if word should get back to the duke.”
“But there is little I can do on my own,” Ridley protested.
“Oh, bless my soul,” said Miss Manford, “is there nothing, James? You seem to have such strength of character and such practical ability.”
“And I am honored that you should turn to me, Eugenia,” Ridley replied, laying a comforting hand over hers on the table for a moment. “What I shall do is have someone watch Cranshawe to make sure that he does not bother her Grace unduly. I am afraid there is little I can do to rescue her from the moneylender, since I do not have the funds with which to pay him off.”
“Oh, you are a dear,” Miss Manford cried, leaping to her feet and gazing admiringly down on her hero. “I must return to the schoolroom. The dear children missed their lessons this morning and I do not wish them to grow up ignoramuses.”
CHAPTER 12
S
ome of Henry’s confidence and natural ebullience of spirit had been restored by the time she turned her phaeton into Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five. She had paid duty calls on several acquaintances and had been made much of by male and female friends alike.
In the park she was soon surrounded by her usual court of young men, who enjoyed her company because they could talk freely in her presence without sending her into a fit of the vapors if they happened to say the wrong word. She also tolerated talk about horses and hunting and boxing. In fact, she was often treated merely as “one of the fellows.” Most important, perhaps, was that Henry was a safe companion. She was safely married. They could talk and laugh and flirt with her without their intentions being misconstrued by a watchful parent. Henry was very obviously not even in the market for an affair. Either she had nerves of iron, the young men concluded among themselves, or she was incredibly innocent (they were inclined to favor the former), because even the most blatant sexual innuendo left her unflinching and unblushing. Soon no one even tried to proposition her. She was apparently either very afraid of her husband or else very much in love with him. And not many of her frequent companions could imagine Henry being afraid of any man.
The exception to all these trends was, of course, Oliver Cranshawe. He sensed that he was close to achieving the great goal of his life, and he intended to press his advantage.
He was again on foot, nodding to acquaintances, smiling at them with easy charm. He joined the small crowd of men surrounding Henry’s carriage, which she had drawn to a halt.
“Good afternoon, cousin,” he called affably. “I see that it is, as usual, well nigh impossible to get close enough to you to pay one’s compliments.”
Henry smiled. “But you always seem to find a way, do you not, Mr. Cranshawe?” she cooed.
“But, Henry,” he continued, sending a sparkling smile in her direction, “you are not going to keep your husband’s relative at such a distance, are you, and with a crick in his neck from gazing up at you? I should not refuse the offer of a turn in the park with you.”
Henry’s animated expression hid the near desperation that she felt as she looked around the group to see if there was any other man not on horseback, with whom she could claim a prior agreement to drive. There was none.
“I am afraid, sir, that I must return home soon,” she said, returning her gaze to Cranshawe. “My husband and I have an early engagement this evening.”
“Then let me ride with you to the park gates,” he said. “I have something I must tell you.”
Henry bowed her head in unwilling acquiescence. While Cranshawe climbed into the high seat beside her, she laughingly engaged to dance with two of her eager admirers during the Spencer ball to be held on the evening of the following day.
She expertly turned the grays in the crowded pathway and started them in the direction from which they had come. “To the gateway it is, then, Oliver,” she said grimly, staring straight ahead.
“Oh, come now, my dear,” he said, “you need not be so stiff in my presence.”
“I am not your dear, Oliver,” Henry replied firmly. “And I cannot imagine anyone in whose presence I more wish to appear stiff.”
He laughed softly. “Do you know, Henry,” he said, “when I first set out to befriend you, I thought it would be an utter bore. I was quite wrong. You are most delightful. I admire your spirit more than I can say. I look forward to unusual sport when you finally capitulate to me.”
“Unusual sport is right!” she spat out. “You would go away with a few cuts and bruises for your pains, Oliver Cranshawe, if you even tried to behave improperly with me.”
He chuckled again. “Soon now, Henry, you will have to admit that you have no choice,” he said. “I offer you an easy way out, do I not? One night spent with me, and I shall give you a signed note to say that all your debt has been paid. You will be free, Henry.”
“Do you think I would let you so much as touch me?” she hissed. “If you imagine that I would ever give myself to you for even one minute, you must have windmills in your head, Oliver.”
He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice, though there was no one within hearing distance. “How do you know that you would not enjoy it, Henry?” he said. “I think your only experience so far has been with Marius, and I have good reason to believe that he would not make much effort to give you pleasure. I, on the other hand, find that I have a genuine desire to find out what sort of passion you are capable of beneath the bedcovers.”
Henry jerked on the ribbons and the horses drew to a halt. She turned on her companion, fury sparking from her eyes. “How dare you speak to me so!” she cried. “I am not so much in your debt that I have to listen to such indignities.”
“Come away with me, Henry,” he said, quite undeterred by her anger. “We will go to France and Italy, and I shall show you what life has to offer a woman of such vitality.”
“You can go to the devil, Oliver Cranshawe,” she said. Then an arrested look came over her face. “What did you mean,” she asked “by saying that you have ‘good reason’ to believe that Marius is not really interested in me?”
Cranshawe grinned. “I perceive that his opinion matters to you, Henry,” he said. “What a shame, my dear. I have it on good authority that Marius married you only as a result of a rather sordid wager.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, chin jutting forward.
“It seems he was beginning to feel the need to find some female to breed,” he said, flashing her his most brilliant smile, “to squash my hopes, of course. When he publicly announced that he despised all women and that it mattered not to him which female he chose, one of his cronies wagered that he would not, in fact, choose so carelessly. He was to choose himself a bride and marry her within some indecently short time. He won the wager, of course.”
“You are a liar!” Henry cried. “Where did you hear such a stupid story?”
“Almost from the horse’s mouth, my dear,” Cranshawe replied. “Are you acquainted with Dick Hanley and his bride? They were sharing a box at the opera with Suzanne Broughton last evening. The wager was made at his bachelor party, it seems.”
“I do not believe one word of what you have said,” Henry replied. “You merely wish to discredit Marius in my eyes so that I will more readily comply with your demands.”
Cranshawe laughed. “Henry, I do believe that you love the man,” he said. “How very interesting, my dear. I see that we are close to the gates. I shall get down here. You will be hearing from me, Henry. I believe a few days will help you to see matters in a different light. I shall look forward to our eventual encounter. By the way, how do you like the grays?”
Henry stared stonily at him.
He smiled. “Marius did well out of the wager, did he not?” he said. “He had been trying for months to purchase them.”
Henry whipped the horses into a trot and turned from the park entrance into the street at a daring pace. I don’t believe it, she thought, I won’t believe it. But she found it. impossible to believe her own denials.
Philip was feeling rebellious. Manny was insisting that Pen and he stay in the schoolroom and do their lessons. The afternoon before she had refused to allow them to follow Henry when she had gone out alone in her phaeton. He had tried to convince her that his sister was in constant danger from the teeth and from the moneylender’s spies, but Manny, for once, had remained firm.
“The dear duke put his trust in me at a time when I had been dismissed,” she had said. “I feel it my responsibility to keep watch over you, dear children, and to make sure that you learn your lessons.”
“But, Manny,” Penelope had complained, “we can catch up with all that horrid work once we know that Henry is safe.”
“She will be safe, never fear,” Miss Manford had replied firmly. “Philip talked to Mr. Giles this morning and I talked to Mr. Ridley. He assured me that the duke himself is concerned and is doing his best to protect the dear duchess.”