Never Fall for your Fiancée, page 24
“And you shouldn’t have taken my sister off alone! I knew you were a despoiler! I warned Minerva you couldn’t be trusted! But I let my guard down and at the first opportunity, you stole her away!” Diana’s pointed finger jabbed him in the chest much too close to his battered heart. “If she’s been ruined, you’ll have to answer to me!”
“I have not been ruined, Diana . . .”
“Or so you think! There is more than one way to ruin a woman, Minerva, and this repugnant rake probably knows all of them! Did the blaggard promise you marriage in return for favors? I suppose he took you to some filthy inn somewhere so he could have his wicked way with you away from prying eyes!”
Hugh grabbed the jabbing finger before it did more damage to the organ Minerva had already bludgeoned. “I did not ruin your sister!” He’d wanted to. Lord knows he had wanted to. Ruin her and make her his, then never let her go. “And I resent the implication.”
“Resent it, do you?” The most confrontational Merriwell placed one hand on her hip and gestured to Minerva with the other. “Look at the state of her! Do you deny you never laid so much as a finger on her? A man like you? London’s very own Don Juan!”
Hugh did not need another lecture on the sort of man he was. “We have better things to concern ourselves with than your scurrilous accusations, Diana. Can we focus on the problem in hand?”
“Là ci darem la mano . . . Là mi dirai di sì . . .” Lucretia’s garbled warbling came from under her petticoat tent at a volume and pitch guaranteed to offend the ears, the choice of song farcically fitting in the wake of Diana’s suspicions— the rake’s infamous seduction scene from Don Giovanni. The one where he tries to lure a good girl away from her morals and her fiancé. Like his mother, Hugh was coming to loathe Mozart.
“I knew it! I knew you couldn’t be trusted!”
“Vedi, non è lontano . . .”
“Stop singing, Lucretia!” He yanked the petticoats from the woman’s face. “You need to be quiet!”
“Did I ever tell you I played Zerlina at Drury Lane? It was a triumph . . .” He yanked the petticoats back.
Bloody Giles!
The sister’s finger jabbed again. “What are you going to do to rectify your grievous wrongs, Lord Fareham?”
“Nothing, Diana!” The woman he desperately wanted to be able to ruin finally found her voice above the cacophony. “Because nothing happened.” Her eyes flicked to his, and he couldn’t read them. “I wasn’t ruined. Hugh hasn’t despoiled or seduced me. We did some sightseeing! I saw the sea. That is hardly a crime.”
“The housekeeper said Payne is in his quarters.” Vee burst back through the door, looking distraught. “Apparently he has warned everyone on threat of death he is not to be disturbed, even in an emergency.”
“What the blazes!” Hugh marched to the door himself, desperately needing to strangle someone, and that someone might as well be his insubordinate butler. “We shall see about that!” Clearly the whole world had gone mad today. Nothing had felt right since he’d waltzed with Minerva. He turned to her, and in fairness had to admit that thanks to his reckless curricle driving, she did look like she had been thoroughly ravished. “I’ll be back.”
She nodded, apologetic when she had nothing whatsoever to apologize for, aside from rejecting him, which added more fuel to the flames— when he wanted her to be as furious at fate as he was. Wanted her to fight for him— for them. To at least give it a chance.
“We will hold the fort until you do.” What a typically selfless and utterly annoying Minerva thing to say.
“Of course you will.” Better that than take a stand for something that could be wonderful if . . .
Bloody what-ifs!
Hugh slammed the door and took the servants’ stairs two at a time up to the third floor and hammered his fist on the door to his butler’s quarters. “Open the blasted door, Payne, or I’ll knock it down!”
He heard a key turn in a lock, and the door opened just enough for his butler to squeeze through before he pulled it shut behind him. “Thank goodness you are home, my lord . . .”
“Don’t ‘thank goodness’ me, you layabout! What the devil do you mean abandoning the ladies to deal with that drunken actress alone? Is this how you behave in my absence? You promised to fetch coffee and then came up here to rest on your laurels!”
“Something unexpected and urgent came up, my lord.”
“Something unexpected! And urgent to boot? Here— in your comfortable private quarters well away from the crisis below?” Hugh folded his arms and blinked.
“We have a visitor. Or rather, you have a visitor. A most insistent one. Thank goodness he arrived after everyone had retired and I was able to intercept him. For the sake of discretion, I brought him up here, where I have been guarding him since. Patiently awaiting your arrival.” Payne pushed open the door to reveal an older man lounging in a chair by the fireplace. Arrogant emerald eyes locked with his, and Hugh knew exactly who he was before his butler introduced him.
“Mr. Alfred Merriwell, my lord. Miss Minerva’s father.”
His first reaction was to pummel the wastrel to a bloody pulp. Instead, he set his jaw and walked calmly into the room, sensing trouble in spades. “Mr. Merriwell . . . an unpleasant surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I came to visit my daughters.” The man crossed one leg over the other and smiled. “Is this a bad time?”
“I suspect you know perfectly well it’s a very bad time, else you wouldn’t be here. Let’s not beat around the bush, sir.”
“I was in church yesterday and witnessed the strangest thing. My daughter pretending to be someone else as the banns were read announcing her impending marriage. To you . . . an earl . . . a renowned rogue . . .” Hugh’s eyes narrowed in warning. He’d take that criticism from Minerva, he’d suffer it from her sister, but not this snake.
Alfred Merriwell shrugged, unapologetic. “Rather than object when the opportunity was given, I did the decent thing and thought I’d come speak to you. Man to man.”
“You were in the church?”
“I rented a room at the inn. What a friendly place the village is. Everyone was very keen to talk about you and my Minerva. Your long engagement on account of her battle with consumption. The tragic death of her father in the Cairngorms, of all places. She also seems to have found a new mother now, too . . .”
“What do you want?”
“You’re a rich man.” Blackmail. Hugh wasn’t surprised. “I am sure you can work it out.”
“How much?”
“I’d be a fool to walk away for less than a hundred, now, wouldn’t I?”
Hugh sat, calmly mirroring the man’s pose while his mind was racing. “What do I get in return for my hundred pounds, Mr. Merriwell?”
“I shall go back to whence I came and you won’t see me again.” Hugh highly doubted that.
“And what about your daughters?”
“What about them?”
“Will you expect to see them before you leave? To tell them you have returned from your extended trip to who knows where? To share your newfound good fortune from your extorted one hundred pounds?” It was a test. One he felt in his bones Alfred Merriwell would fail.
“I don’t see any reason why they need to know. The girls are better off without me. Especially as they are bound to be leaving with some of your money, too— what with there being plenty to go around. Am I right, Lord Fareham? Because we both know you and my Minerva aren’t really engaged and you certainly haven’t known each other for two long years.”
“You sound pretty certain of that. How could you possibly know we haven’t been courting for two years when you abandoned them for pastures new five long years ago?”
“I’ve checked on my girls.”
“You’ve checked on them?”
“Here and there. To satisfy myself they were doing all right.” Which meant the scoundrel was never too far from London and must have seen them struggling.
“From a safe distance, I assume, seeing as those girls haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since you disappeared?”
The man shrugged. “I never saw you once in Clerkenwell, my lord. Odd, don’t you think? Seeing as everyone here claims the pair of you are madly in love and have been eagerly awaiting your nuptials for ages.”
“A better question is why, if you were in Clerkenwell, you left Minerva to raise your children with no support— financial or otherwise?” His first image of her sprung to mind. The shabby, mismatched clothes, the down-at-heel shoes. The desperation for nine measly shillings and threepence.
“Minerva was a better parent than I ever was. She took to it right after her mother passed and so the other two were better off. Some men aren’t cut out to be fathers, Your Lordship. I did my time. And I did right by them until they were old enough to fend for themselves.”
“She was nineteen!” All pretense of calmness disappeared in his bark. “She was nineteen and you ruined her life!”
“I taught her a trade. She had a steady income. The roof I put over their heads. What else was I supposed to do? I did as right by them as I could. You are a man of the world, Your Lordship. . . . We men have needs, don’t we? Needs that won’t be met when you come with three more mouths to feed.”
“You left them for a woman . . .” It was a statement not a question. “One better situated than yourself.” More images of Minerva working her fingers to the bone, struggling to make ends meet, feeding three mouths while her father ate his dinner elsewhere made his fists clench. “You selfish bastard!”
“It takes one to know one. Men like us do what we must to get what we want.” Alfred Merriwell shrugged again, entirely unrepentant while Hugh felt sick to his stomach. “One hundred pounds, Lord Fareham— or I tell the whole village the truth.” He stood and brushed imaginary lint off his tatty jacket. “I shall expect the money tomorrow. You can find me at the inn. Just ask for Mr. Smith.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
A very different Hugh came down late to dinner that evening and remained for the next week. Not that anyone else would have noticed, because he was, on the surface at least, the same mischievous, charming fellow he always was. Perhaps more so. The life and soul of everything, constantly entertaining everyone and always laughing. But the special connection Minerva had always shared with him was gone, and while his blue eyes twinkled, they no longer twinkled for her.
By unspoken tacit agreement, they avoided one another unless they were in company, and she hadn’t ventured to the portrait gallery. She was too angry, too sad, and too proud to listen to his oh-so-reasonable explanations again or to suffer a second insulting proposal to become his kept woman.
Even when a beautiful set of watercolors arrived, complete with brushes, papers, and an easel, she chose to thank him over the breakfast table rather than do it in private. Each evening they bid each other a bland good-night, neither lingering in case the other uttered the dreaded words “my love” and they would be forced to be alone together with all the suffocating awkwardness such a meeting would now entail. Instead, they sent messages via Payne. Short, impersonal, painful messages that only imparted whatever pertinent detail was necessary to keep their interminable ruse going until Lord Bellingham returned to save them.
Worse, if indeed things could be worse, Minerva had to put on a show for everyone, including her sisters, constantly wearing the mask of cheerful normality when it felt as if she were dying inside. Nursing a newly broken heart in a house filled with jollity was exhausting, and she collapsed on her bed each night mourning the loss of him while sleep refused to come. When it did, he occupied her dreams until she woke up bereft and drained, only to begin the cycle again.
“The green or the red, miss?” In the mirror she listlessly watched Martha’s reflection hold up two gowns. “Both are stunning.”
Not so long ago, Minerva would have killed for dresses so fine and beautiful. She had been overwhelmed when those two evening gowns had arrived, and excited to wear them. Now neither held any appeal. Nor did the assembly. Especially as she wouldn’t be waltzing. How could she waltz with him now? “You choose.”
The maid smiled, then laid them both out on the bed. “Let’s do your hair first and see which one looks the best once it’s done. What sort of style do you want?”
“Whichever you think best.” She handed over the brush she had been dutifully pulling through her hair at Martha’s insistence, to make it shine, not that she had anyone to make it shine for. With a smile as false as the role she was playing, she settled back and suffered the maid’s ministrations.
The light rap on the door was followed by Olivia’s voice. “Might I come in?”
“Yes . . .” Hugh’s mother had never visited her bedchamber before, or even this wing. “Yes, of course.” She sat up straighter and pulled the thin robe closed, embarrassed to be in just her chemise and the low-cut tight stays Martha had assured her went with an evening gown.
The older woman entered smiling, already fully dressed in a glamorous peacock-blue silk gown and dripping in what Minerva assumed were real sapphires and diamonds. “Could you leave us, Martha?” Olivia clearly had something of great import to say. “I shall summon you again when we are done.”
She tried to ignore the trickle of unease that skittered down her spine, and managed to conjure a welcoming smile. Despite her rift with Hugh, she had been getting on famously with his mother. The probing questions had stopped and, much to her surprise, they had started to become friends. Enough so, Minerva had stopped herself twice from confiding about her rift with Hugh.
“I hope you don’t mind me barging in on your toilette, only I wanted to bring you this.” Olivia produced a velvet-covered box from behind her back and held it out to her. “Open it.”
Slowly, she reached for the box and lifted the lid, then blinked in surprise at the contents.
“My mother’s rubies. She gave them to me as a wedding present and seeing as I never had a daughter, I should like to give them to you.”
Minerva snapped the box shut and handed it back. “I really can’t. . . . It’s too much.”
“Nonsense, my dear.” Oliva opened the box herself and removed the heavy cascade of gems, which glittered in the lamplight. “I want you to have them and I simply will not take no for an answer.” She undid the clasp and draped the necklace around Minerva’s neck. The largest teardrop ruby rested above her décolleté, the matching collar of several fat rubies interlaced with diamonds rested heavily at her nape.
Like shame.
“I knew they would suit you! You have the coloring to carry them. Red favors dark hair. . . . And I see you have just the gown to go with them.” She pushed Minerva’s unbound hair to one side to fix the clasp. “There are matching earrings, a broach, and a bracelet— but we shall affix those once you are dressed.”
Minerva sat frozen, lost for words. The weight of the lie she had told this kind woman was heavier than the gems she had no right to be wearing.
“Are you excited about tomorrow?”
The dreaded wedding dress day.
“Yes. Very.” There was nothing more awkward than being measured for a beautiful wedding gown you knew you would never wear.
“I know it is a little unorthodox choosing bridal gowns and bridesmaid gowns on a Sunday, but Madame Devy is a very busy woman and I am sure the Almighty will forgive us as we will be attending the sermon in the morning, and choosing a gown in the afternoon is hardly work, now, is it?”
Church.
Minerva had forgotten about that dreadful ordeal, too. Tomorrow she would have to draw upon all her strength to sit through the second fraudulent reading of the banns followed by an entire afternoon trying to appear enthusiastic about her pointless trousseau. Unless the Almighty decided to put her out of her misery and smite her for perpetuating the falsehood.
“It will be fun.” If your idea of fun was pouring vinegar into your eyes.
“Would you allow me to do your hair?” Olivia didn’t wait for a response, picking up the brush and gently dragging it through her locks. “As a child, I loved to play with the hair of my dolls and couldn’t wait to have a daughter to practice my skills on— but alas— the fates granted me just one child, and can you imagine the ruckus he would make if I attempted to do his?”
“Did you want more children?”
“I should have liked a larger family . . .” The twinkle in Olivia’s blue eyes, eyes so like Hugh’s, dimmed for a moment. “But I fear I was a little too old when Jeremiah and I married. It is such a shame, because he would have made a wonderful father. He has Hugh, of course, and since my first husband died, he has stepped into that role. They get on splendidly as you’ve seen . . . but I do wish I could have given him the joy of a baby. Never mind, he shall now have grandchildren to look forward to and doubtless spoil rotten. You shall be sick of the sight of us . . .” She rubbed Minerva’s shoulder and grinned. “Because we have decided to stay. Isn’t that marvelous?”
“Stay in England?”
“Yes. . . . We haven’t told Hugh yet. But for a while now, Jeremiah has been talking about selling his business holdings in America.”
“Isn’t that a bit hasty?”
“If the last few years have taught us anything, it’s that home is here. We both miss Hampshire dreadfully, and with you and Hugh finally getting married, and the promise of those grandchildren on the horizon, it seems like all the fates are aligned. Jeremiah has already sold his shipping company. He signed the final papers the week before we sailed. He’s going to send a letter to his lawyers to instruct them to sell the rest and the house in Boston. It seems silly keeping a house we have no further use of.”
Panic and remorse warred, making her gut clench with guilt. This was all getting out of hand.
It was one thing to allow herself to be measured for a ridiculously expensive gown she wouldn’t wear, it was quite another to allow two innocent people to completely upheave their life to be closer to the grandchildren who would never come.
