A Compromised Lady (27 page)

‘He doesn’t like you,’ observed Lady Chasewater coldly.

‘He doesn’t have to, Lady Chasewater,’ said Thea. ‘And neither do you.’

The old eyes narrowed in their nests of wrinkles. ‘No. I don’t. Like you, that is. Whether I have to or not.’ Bitterness curved the thin lips. ‘And there are plenty to tell me that there are fifty thousand very good reasons why I should like you. Or at least tolerate you. What have you done with young Blakehurst? I take it that it is he who came with you? Is he not coming up to threaten me again?’

‘Again?’

‘Didn’t tell you that, did he? Oh, he came. Warning me off as though you were a perfect nosegay of all the virtues. But you and I know better, don’t we, Miss Winslow? He’ll soon know the truth.’

‘This is nothing to do with him,’ said Thea, drawing off her gloves. ‘For what it’s worth, Richard Blakehurst already knows the truth, but this is for you and me to settle.’

Lady Chasewater stared at her. ‘For God’s sake, sit down, girl!’ she snapped. ‘I’ve no need for a stiff neck staring up at you! No. Wait.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Give the door a good hard thump.

With your fist. Just about the keyhole.’

A little puzzled, Thea complied. The muffled grunt on the other side and retreating footsteps spoke volumes for Lady Chasewater’s acumen. Thea stared at her unwilling hostess, reluctant amusement bubbling within.

‘I’ve no idea what Almeria Arnsworth’s servants are like, but mine are a pack of busybodies!’ said Lady Chasewater disgustedly.

The amusement deepened, entwined with regret. Under other circumstances she would have liked this outspoken old woman.

‘You may sit over there.’ Lady Chasewater indicated an open-armed chair at least three yards from her own sofa. ‘And then you may tell me the reason that you have demanded to see me. And why this is none of Richard Blakehurst’s business.’

Thea seated herself and gave the old lady back stare for stare. ‘I made no demand, Lady Chasewater. I have merely called upon you because there is something I wish to explain to you.

And Mr Blakehurst accompanied me as a friend.’

The old woman gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘A friend! And you make no demand, eh? There is merely something you wish to explain.’ Her lip curled. ‘How you can imagine anything you might say would influence my opinion of you is beyond me!’

‘You mistake, ma’am. I could not care less whatever your opinion of me may be. You are welcome to think of me as you will.’

‘Then what the devil do you want of me?’ flashed the old woman.

‘I want you to listen to the truth.’

Cold eyes bored into Thea. ‘And you think this will alter my opinion of you?’

Thea shook her head. ‘No. You think as my father does. His opinion has not altered in eight years.

Like you, he has fifty thousand reasons to acknowledge me. The truth is not one of them.’

‘I don’t imagine it is!’ mocked Lady Chasewater. ‘Very well then, girl: what is this “truth” that you would tell me?’

‘Eight years ago when…’ She swallowed and tried again. ‘Eight years ago, your son, with the approval of my father and his, offered me marriage. I was not quite seventeen.’

Lady Chasewater snorted. ‘If you think youth excuses—’

‘I did not initially refuse him.’ Reminding herself that the old lady had been Lallerton’s mother, she said quietly, ‘But I was uncertain about marrying him. He was very much older, and I asked for time to think. To come to know him. Just that.’

‘At sixteen you should have accepted that your father knew what was best for you and thanked God for a respectable match!’ snapped Lady Chasewater.

Thea gritted her teeth. That was the view many people would take. She had expected nothing more. ‘As you know, my father and Lord Chasewater were determined that the match should go ahead; my father told me that the match was settled.’

‘As it should have been! Does it make you proud to know that your intransigence caused the death of my son?’

Thea continued. ‘He also told your son that the match was a settled thing. That I would be brought to see reason. A day or so later, your son invited me out driving. Since I had requested the opportunity to come to know him better, I went. Your son drove some miles, it was late afternoon, a storm was coming on, and although I kept telling him we were too far from home and should turn back, he ignored me and we ended up seeking shelter at an inn. There was no choice but to remain there for the night.’

‘So you were compromised.’ Lady Chasewater’s voice spat contempt.

‘So he told me.’ Thea hung on to her composure, her coldness, the icy armour that was her only defence against the searing humiliation and choking terror. It had happened to someone else, a girl who no longer existed, a stranger. She was telling someone else’s tale.

‘Perhaps foolishly, I told him that I would not marry him, that if he had engineered the situation to force my consent, it would not work. I retired to my bedchamber for the night with one of the maidservants. In that way, I thought, the worst of the scandal could be averted.’

‘Thought of everything, didn’t you?’

‘Everything except your son bribing the girl to leave the chamber in the middle of the night—’

‘What rubbish!’

‘He admitted it, ma’am. Proudly. As though he had done something clever. Straight after he raped me.’

She had said it aloud. For the first time ever, she had said it aloud to someone. Always before she had shied from the actual word. Even in the silence of her own mind, she had flinched from the ugliness of that particular word. No longer.

‘You were betrothed,’ said Lady Chasewater with a shrug. ‘No doubt he should have waited, but with your father sanctioning the match, what right had you to—?’

‘I refused him.’ Thea forced her voice to remain cold. Steady. Unflinching. ‘I had refused his suit and when I realised…when I woke up to find him in my bed, I refused…I refused—’

She broke off. Shutting out the memories that rose black and monstrous to engulf her. The heavy body, crushing her struggles, the hand stifling her screams, his triumphant grunt as her thighs were forced apart…and the pain and terrified humiliation as he violated her body, swiftly and completely. She forced the memories away. Back behind the icy wall that must contain them.

‘Oh, good God, girl! What do you imagine happened that would not have happened on your wedding night?’ The words, the impatience, echoed Aberfield. ‘Do you think this changes my opinion of you for the better? Little fool! Having lost your virtue to Nigel, you had much better have married him!’ Her lip curled. ‘No one else would have had you, knowing the truth, and if you think to sway my opinion of you with this tale, you have missed your mark.’

‘Ma’am, as I said at the outset, your opinion of me is irrelevant.’

‘Then state your purpose in coming and have done.’

‘Ask yourself this question, ma’am: how would you expect any man of honour to respond on hearing that his sister had been raped?’

Lady Chasewater’s mouth opened. And shut again. Her lips thinned.

‘I see. You expect me, then, to accept your interpretation of Nigel’s behaviour, and—’

‘No,’ Thea cut in. ‘I do not expect that. Nor do I wish it. You may think as you please of me. You may believe that it was not rape. But do you have the imagination to accept that David believed me? That my brother believed that I had been raped, and acted accordingly? I ask you again: how should a man of honour respond? You have a daughter—how would your son have behaved if the positions had been reversed?’

Bitter silence cried out between them as the ravaged old face hardened.

‘What do you want of me?’

‘Very little. Sir Giles Mason has dismissed the case against my brother. You, however, can still ruin him by innuendo and gossip. If you were to let it be known that it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding—’

‘You must be mad!’

Thea took a deep breath. ‘Then I will have no choice but to tell people the reason for the quarrel—

whether or not I am fully believed, the scandal will ruin you.’

‘And you too,’ said Lady Chasewater. Yet she sounded uncertain, shaken.

‘But I don’t care,’ said Thea. ‘And your son’s name will be smeared. You have a daughter to establish.’

There was a long silence.

Then, ‘Your brother behaved as a man of honour, and I will do what I can to stem the gossip.

Does that satisfy you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let me tell you this: you disgraced your name, your family, your birth. In refusing to let my son make an honest woman of you, you disgraced your sex. You were not worthy of my son’s regard! Nor of your brother’s!’

Thea rose. ‘There is one further thing. In one of your letters you mentioned a child. A…a daughter

—’

Thea broke off as Lady Chasewater’s eyes blazed.

‘You admit it, do you?’

Pain banded around her heart. ‘I was told the child died, but now I have made it my business to find out the truth. I believe that she is alive, and once that is confirmed and I have all the particulars, I will make a will in her favour.’

‘Pah!’ spat Lady Chasewater. ‘What good will that do? Your marriage to Blakehurst will invalidate a will; betrothed to him, you can make no legally binding disposition of your property!’

She had considered that. It had been the final death blow to her unborn hopes. If the child in Bath was hers…

‘There is no betrothal. Nor will there be. That was a misunderstanding. There is nothing to prevent me making such a disposition.’

Lady Chasewater stared. ‘No betrothal? He is awaiting you downstairs.’ Her mouth curled in a sneer.

‘No,’ said Thea quietly. ‘There will be no marriage.’

Lady Chasewater stared at her, and Thea swallowed. There was pain, aching, grieving pain in the old eyes.

‘I see.’ Lady Chasewater’s throat worked and her hands tightened in her lap. ‘I dare say that I have no right to ask it, but perhaps you might send me news of the child…from time to time. If you visit her, that is.’

‘I…I could do that,’ said Thea, dazed. Then, not quite knowing why, she asked, ‘Do you wish to see her?’ Seeing shock in the older woman’s face, she added hurriedly, ‘Not to acknowledge her, but just to see her—if it could be arranged discreetly?’

There was a long silence, stretching, breaching the gulf between them. At last Lady Chasewater said, ‘I’ll think about it. Good day.’

Accepting her dismissal, Thea turned to go.

As she reached for the door, Lady Chasewater spoke again. ‘Does Aberfield know yet of your intention?’

Thea looked back. ‘Not yet. I’ll tell him when I have all the information. I wish to give him no chance to hide the child again.’

A harsh laugh broke from the old woman. ‘Very wise. I only knew of her existence after my husband’s death. I found a letter from Aberfield, but he refused to give me any information. You will tell me if he causes any difficulty. Now go!’

The door shut behind her. She began to shake uncontrollably as the enormity of what she had done hit her. It was over. David would be safe now. Lady Chasewater had accepted that David had acted in all honour. She forced herself to breathe deeply, willing the shivering to stop. And, slowly, it did. Because she had said it must.

And not only was David safe, but there seemed now to be a queer, tacit understanding between herself and Lady Chasewater. She looked back to the bitter, frightened woman who had arrived in London a few weeks ago. Could that woman have walked into Lady Chasewater’s drawing room, spoken the truth and forged this resolution?

She didn’t think so. That woman had found it difficult enough just to hold herself together behind her façade. Somehow, somewhere, she had discovered her strength. And the courage to use it.

Twinkling dark eyes and a crooked smile formed in her thoughts. Richard. He would never know how much he had helped—simply by being her friend.

He was waiting in the front hall, seated exactly where she had left him. As she came down the stairs he looked up and stood swiftly. His eyes seemed to search her, inside and out, for the least trace of harm. Then he smiled.

‘Dragon slain?’

She shook her head. ‘Not exactly.’ Unless it had been within herself, nothing had needed slaying.

Accepting his offered arm, she said, ‘Understanding seemed better.’

The dark brows lifted. ‘It often is. Come. I’ll walk you home.’

The walk was just what she needed to order her thoughts. Richard didn’t speak, but she was aware of his quiet strength beside her, somehow surrounding her while not being in the least overwhelming. A friend. And more, something much more that could not be acknowledged.

‘You are leaving for Blakeney tomorrow?’ she asked as they turned into Grosvenor Square.

‘Yes.’ Wry amusement touched his voice as he said, ‘According to Max, my godson will be making all sorts of amazing progress that I simply must see.’

A strangled laugh escaped her. ‘Of course.’ Inside she bled, thinking of the child in Bath whom no one had wanted. The only thought at her birth had been to hide her. Even from her own mother.

‘And you and Almeria will come down the day after. I’ll look forward to that,’ he told her. Gently, he said, ‘Stop worrying, Thea. We can sort it out it. Talk it through.’

It would be so easy to accept what he offered—surely he would understand her desire to provide for the child first?

If you visit her…Lady Chasewater’s words haunted her. She had thought only to ensure the child’s safety. Children needed more than that. Her own father had kept her safe—according to his code of conduct he had done his duty by her—and more. Many fathers would have simply flung her out.

He had at least provided for her.

Safety and security—but no love.

Didn’t her own child need more than that? If she accepted Richard’s offer, would he permit more than that?

R ichard relaxed back in his chair by the French doors in the library at Blakeney, Max’s spaniels at his feet. It was a glorious evening and the doors onto the terrace were open. All the sounds of the dusk drifted in, the cry of an owl, a faint whinnying and stamping from the stables. Scent wafted up from the garden, lavender, rosemary. It had been a warm day and the fragrances lingered on the air with a promise of the coming summer. He always felt at ease here, at home. This house, this room particularly, had been home all his life. Not any more. Oh, he still felt perfectly at ease, with the familiarity of long acquaintance. The room had still its welcome for him, as did the house.