A Wicked Gentleman (36 page)

Cornelia shook her head, trying to hide the sheen of tears in her eyes. “No, but thank you both. I don't know what I'd have done without you.”

“Seems to me you did rather well on your own,” Aurelia said briskly. “Disarming some knife-wielding thug.” She touched the scratch on Cornelia's neck. “I think Linton should look at that.”

“It's nothing. It doesn't hurt.” Cornelia moved her head gently aside. “I'll bathe it with warm water and use a little witch hazel. It's a mere scratch.”

Her friends offered no further comment and left her alone. And once she was safely alone, the key turned in the lock, Cornelia allowed the tears to flow. Relief mingled with despair, joy with grief. She had her child safe, but she had lost the possibility of a happiness that, without considering how it was to be achieved, she had insensibly begun to consider her due.

 

Harry listened to Morecombe's uninformative denial in tight-lipped silence. He'd heard from Lester what had transpired in the carriage, and he knew he had but one chance to put things straight. And that one chance was a mere thread at best. But he would not give up. It was not in his nature to accept defeat. He knew what he had done, and he could guess what and how Cornelia was feeling. But she was a reasonable woman, a highly intelligent woman. She would see both sides. She would consider his position. Once her hurt and anger had died down, she would see things clearly.

He accepted that now he had no choice but to tell her everything. And if that confidence compromised his service, then so be it. He had given twelve years to that service, and much as he loved his work, if continuing meant losing this woman, then he would retire.

He shook his head impatiently as Morecombe made to close the front door on him, and before it shut, he put his shoulder against it and heaved. His second unceremonious entrance in one day, he reflected dourly, following his own momentum into the hall.

“My apologies,” he said perfunctorily to the dazed butler. “Where's Lady Dagenham?”

“You can't see her,” Aurelia said from the stairs as she came down to the hall.

“No, she's not well enough to see you,” Livia corroborated from behind her.

Both women regarded him with unconcealed hostility as they stood at the bottom of the stairs. “I'd have thought you'd have the sensitivity to leave her alone after what she's been through,” Aurelia said in frigid tones.

Harry sighed. “I don't think any of you fully understand—”

“What is there to understand?” Livia interrupted furiously. “We understand that a five-year-old child has been vomiting uncontrollably for the last hour. We understand that our friend has been pushed almost to the brink of insanity with fear for her child. And we understand that if not for you, none of that would have happened.”

Harry took an involuntary step backwards at this tirade. Livia, usually so soft and gentle, was a veritable termagant, her gray eyes blasting fury, her black hair springing out around her face as if infused with her rage.

He looked in appeal at Aurelia, who stood in stony silence, her brown eyes cold. Then he recovered the initiative. “Where is she?” Even as he asked the question he headed for the stairs. It was a reasonable assumption that if her friends were coming downstairs, Cornelia would be upstairs.

“You can't go up.” Livia planted herself in front of him.

“Oh, yes, I can,” he said, firmly putting her to one side. “This lies between Nell and me.” He took the stairs two at a time, leaving Livia and Aurelia staring after him.

He went first to Cornelia's bedchamber. If she wasn't there, he'd head for the nursery. The door was locked.

“Cornelia, please let me in.” He kept his voice even, the demand couched as a request.

“Go away, Harry. We have nothing to say to each other.” She sounded weary.

“Oh, but we most certainly do,” he declared, aware that the other two women were now standing behind him. “I'll break this damn door down, if I have to. Now, let me in.”

Cornelia stood irresolute in the middle of her chamber. She had little doubt that if Harry was determined, he would indeed break down the door. Or find some other way to get to her. And in truth she knew that there was no point running away from this. It needed to be finished, once and for all. She went to the door and turned the key, then walked away from it, back to the fireplace.

Harry opened the door and came in. Livia and Aurelia stepped forward at the same time. “I appreciate your concern, but believe it or not, Nell doesn't need protection from me,” he stated, closing the door in their faces and turning the key once again.

He faced her as she stood in front of the fire, holding the robe closed at the neck. She looked ineffably tired and he longed to take her in his arms, to kiss the fatigue from her eyes, to stroke the tension from the tall, slender frame. There was an emptiness to her eyes that filled him with sorrow.

“Oh, my dear love,” he murmured, coming quickly towards her. “I will never forgive myself for this.” He tried to draw her close, but she stepped away from him, warding him off with upraised hands.

“What is it you'll never forgive yourself for, Harry?” she asked with a cold detachment. “For pretending to love me, pretending to be my friend? For using me?…No, let me have my say,” she demanded fiercely as he tried to interrupt. “You've forced this upon me, and by God you'll listen to me.”

Harry acknowledged this with a faint inclination of his head and moved away to stand in front of the window, his hands loosely at his sides, his clear green eyes filled with pain as he gazed unwaveringly at her.

Bitter anger, the knowledge of betrayal, wretched hurt, and humiliation at being duped fueled her eloquence. She made no attempt to modify her denunciation, instead allowed the most powerfully hurtful words full rein, and Harry stood and listened in silence.

When finally the eloquence ran dry, he said, “I dispute only one accusation, Nell. You say I never loved you. That's not true. I have loved you for many weeks now. I cannot imagine not loving you.”

There was such quiet confidence in the statement that Cornelia was unable to voice the scornful dismissal that rose to her tongue. “How can you say that?” she asked. “If you loved me, you would not have put me, my family, my friends, into this position.”

He sighed and felt for words. “Lester was here to protect you. I was here, all the time. We were looking for Nigel. I truly didn't believe that there was any real danger for any of you. Once I'd retrieved the thimble—”

“You knew that Nigel was somehow involved?” She stared in disbelief. “And you didn't say anything to any of us. And what do you mean, ‘retrieved the thimble'?” She pushed her tumbled hair away from her face with a distracted air.

“I saw no need to tell you about Nigel,” he said. “I thought we had the situation well under control. I couldn't risk jeopardizing an operation—”

“Oh, of course, your operation…your mission…or whatever you want to call it.” Blue flames enlivened her previously dull gaze as she interrupted him. “And just what was that mission, Harry? I would like to judge whether it was worth the agony my son went through.”

“Hear me out then.” His tone clipped as if he were giving an official debriefing, he told her everything from the moment the thimble disappeared from his house.

Cornelia listened and even though she wanted to dismiss his words as feeble excuses for the inexcusable, her rational mind reasserted itself through the tangle of angry emotions. There had been lives at stake, many lives. It was sheer misfortune that she and her friends had walked unknowingly into the midst of a web of espionage. All that was true.

“You had no need to involve
me
…my heart, my soul, in this operation,” she said when he'd fallen silent. Her voice sounded thick to her ears, thick with hurt and disappointment, and mortification. “You made love to me, I made love to you. Was that necessary in order for you to retrieve your damnable codes?”

“At first I wanted you,” he said simply. “And then I realized I loved you, and the reason for getting involved in the first place was no longer relevant.” He took a step towards her. “Nell, my love, please…you must believe me, there was nothing deliberate or manipulative about the times we shared.”

He reached for her hands, but she jerked them away and he let his hands fall helplessly to his sides again. “I never expected to fall in love. But I want…no need…to spend the rest of my life with you. Without you I will have no life.”

“What are you saying?” Her eyes were still cold, her voice expressionless as she refused to acknowledge the first faint stirring of an emotion that was not anger or hurt.

“Will you marry me, Nell?” The words were blunt, but in his eyes doubt warred with conviction, despair with hope.

Cornelia simply stared at him. “You know that's impossible. Even if I wanted to…after all this…” She gestured widely as if to encompass the whole canvas of their history. “Even if I could forget that you put my
children,
my friends, myself in danger for some mission that meant more to you than our safety, I couldn't ally myself with a man who's been accused of murdering his wife. A man with that stain upon his reputation…I would lose my children. You must know that.”

Harry inhaled sharply as if trying to catch his breath after a blow to the solar plexus. “Who told you?”

“Your great-aunt. But what does it matter who told me?” She shrugged, shaking her head in exasperation.

“I would have found out one day, and you can be certain that my father-in-law has heard the story. And he would use it to get Stevie, make no mistake. Of course I can't marry you. The only hope I have of recovering from this
episode
is to go home to the country and hope that no whisper of this reaches the earl.”

“Do you believe I killed her?” he asked quietly.

She shrugged again. “What does it matter what I believe?”

“It matters to me.” His face was very white beneath the weathered tan, and his green eyes rested on her countenance with an intensity that unnerved her.

“If Lester hadn't killed that man this afternoon,
you
would have killed him,” she said.

“Yes, I would have,” he agreed as quietly as before. “Rather than risk his hurting you, I would have killed him. But that is rather different, don't you think, from killing one's wife for having an affair?”

Cornelia bit her lip. “No, I don't believe you killed your wife,” she stated. “I never did. But that doesn't alter the situation. I couldn't marry you even if I wished to.”

“And you don't wish to,” he declared flatly. “Well, there's no more to be said.” He gazed at her for a long moment, then moved towards the door and reached for the key. “Good-bye, Nell.”

The door closed behind him with a decisive click.

Cornelia picked up the first thing that came to hand, a pewter candlestick, and hurled it with her all her force at the closed door. It hit its mark with a splintering crash that did little to relieve her feelings.

“What on earth…” Aurelia put her head around the door, her eyes a little scared. “Nell, what happened?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Cornelia declared on a sob of part fury, part anguish. “I have never been so miserable in my life, and I can't see any way that's going to change, Ellie.”

I
WISH YOU'D LET
me go with you, Nell.” Aurelia carefully folded one of Cornelia's evening gowns before laying it in the half-filled trunk.

“There's no need, Ellie. And Liv needs a chaperone if she's to stay here,” Cornelia pointed out for the tenth time as she put her hairbrushes into her dressing case.

“Liv would go back too, you know she would.”

“Yes, but it's not necessary.” Cornelia closed the dressing case and turned the little key. “Everything's going so well now. Liv's established in society; she has enough men dangling after her, one of them will declare himself soon, I'm sure of it.”

“Maybe, but are you so sure Liv will take one of them?” Aurelia turned to fold another gown. “She hasn't expressed any preferences.”

“Give her time.” Cornelia took petticoats out of the linen press and began to fold them. “Before the season's over, she'll have more than one offer, I'll wager you.”

“I wouldn't take the wager,” Aurelia declared. “Of course she will, but I still say she might not take any one of them.”

“What might I not take?” Livia asked from the doorway. “Morecombe's put a hamper of food into the chaise, Nell. And the twins made gingerbread for the children, so it should keep them sweet on the journey…What might I not take?”

“A husband,” Cornelia told her. She tried an accompanying chuckle, but somehow it didn't work. These days it seemed as if she'd forgotten how to laugh. “We were discussing your marital prospects.”

Livia made a little moue. “I'm not exactly sanguine about those myself.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “In truth, I'd be happy to go back with you, Nell.”

“No,” Cornelia stated definitely. “The object of this exercise was to find you a husband, and that's what's going to happen.” She became aware of her friends looking at her as she said this and felt her cheeks warm. Neither of them would be tactless enough to point out that only Cornelia thus far had received such an offer.

“We'll see,” Livia said pacifically. “Are you nearly ready? Shall I tell Morecombe to send Jemmy up for the trunk?”

“Yes, thank you, Liv.” Cornelia closed the lid of the trunk and bent to lock it. “Linton has everything in hand from the nursery. Are you sure you don't mind if she goes with me, Ellie?”

“Hardly,” Aurelia said, shaking her head in mock exasperation. “Linton's your nurse, Nell. She's in your employ, I'm not about to poach her. Daisy will be fine with Franny. Although Franny's going to miss Stevie and Susannah.”

“I could take her too, if you'd like,” Cornelia offered, although she knew the offer would be refused. Aurelia was no more willing to be separated from her child than Cornelia was from hers.

Aurelia smiled and shook her head again. “If she gets too fractious, I'll bring her home for a few days.”

“Mr. Morecombe says I'm to take the trunk, m'lady.” Jemmy appeared in the doorway. “An' Hester's here for the rest.” The kitchen maid bobbed up behind him.

“That's it then.” Cornelia surveyed her denuded bedchamber with a pang of loss that she was coming to accept would now be a permanent part of her self. Puss, curled as usual on the end of the bed, appeared unperturbed by the disturbance around her. Cornelia scratched the cat between her ears and was rewarded with a flick of whiskers. She turned resolutely and went downstairs.

The hired post chaise waited at the curb in the early dawnlight, the driver on his box, mounted outriders in place, the postillion supervising the loading of the trunk onto the roof while Tristan and Isolde yapped in ecstasies of excitement, straining at leashes resolutely held by Livia. Linton and the children were already inside the chaise when Cornelia bade farewell to the household before kissing Aurelia and Livia good-bye.

“Write to me,” she enjoined them both. “I want to know everything that happens.”

“Oh, we'll tell you every piece of tittle-tattle,” Aurelia said, her eyes suspiciously bright. “And Liv will give you a detailed description of every suitor.”

Cornelia climbed into the chaise and settled herself on the seat opposite her sleepy children and the ramrod-straight Linton. She leaned out of the window to wave as the chaise pulled away and she stayed waving until the vehicle had turned the corner out of the square, and she could no longer hear the yapping of the silly pink dogs.

The watcher on the far side of the square waited only until the carriage had disappeared before he nudged his horse into a fast trot towards Mount Street.

 

They were crossing Wimbledon Common by eight o'clock. It was a gloomy April morning, heavy rain clouds gathering low on the horizon. The weather suited Cornelia's mood, but she endeavored to show a cheerful front to the children, entertaining them with stories and games of I Spy, while Linton, unable to hide her satisfaction at the prospect of a return to the regular routines of home, allowed her charges to indulge in gingerbread and the apple tartlets supplied by the twins, who had seemed genuinely dismayed at their departure.

When the carriage came to an abrupt halt, Susannah nearly fell off her seat and set up a wail of protest. Cornelia leaned out of the window to find out what had happened, then gazed in horrified astonishment at the scene that met her eye.

A phalanx of men sat their horses in a line across the road, barring their progress. The outriders were fumbling somewhat belatedly with their weapons while the coachman cursed up hill and down dale in a futile tirade.

Highwaymen were hardly infrequent on the commons and heaths around London, but Cornelia had never heard of them being active in broad daylight on such a well-traveled road. Besides, these horsemen didn't really look like they were interested in highway robbery, just rather set on preventing the carriage's progress. She leaned farther out of the window, wondering why she felt no sense of menace at all. But she knew why almost immediately.

Lester's jockeylike frame was unmistakable, and the identity of the lithe, lean figure on the familiar chestnut needed no guesswork.

She pushed open the carriage door and jumped down to the ground without the help of the footstep. She was astonished at how calm she felt, as if somehow she'd been expecting something like this. Which was, of course, ridiculous. Only a lunatic would have expected this. Only a bedlamite would be doing such a thing.

“Gentlemen?” She raised her eyebrows interrogatively as she looked directly at Harry Bonham. “I suppose it didn't occur to you that you could be swinging from the gibbet at the crossroads for this?”

He laughed. “No, my lady, it didn't. Highway robbery is not my object. Although I admit to the holdup.” He swung off his mount and handed the reins to Lester.

He came swiftly over to her, caught her chin, and kissed her. She raised a hand and dealt him a ringing slap, and he laughed softly, taking her hand and kissing the palm.

“Well deserved, I grant you. And you shall do it again as hard and as often as you choose once we get where we're going.”

Still holding her hand he leaned into the carriage, where the children sat gazing wide-eyed on either side of the rigid Linton. “Good morning, Stevie…Susannah,” he greeted them with a smile. “Good morning, Linton.”

Linton gave him a stiff nod that did little to disguise her confusion. The children, on the other hand, beamed at him. “We're playing I Spy with Mama,” Stevie said. “Susannah's not very good at it because she doesn't know how to spell yet.”

“I am…I do,” his sister cried indignantly.

“I'm sure you can,” Harry soothed. “Now, I'm going to take Mama with me, and you're going to follow in the carriage. I have a big surprise for you both.”

Stevie shrank back against the seat, immediately suspicious. “Don't like surprises,” he muttered.

With instant comprehension, Harry said seriously, “This surprise is nothing to be afraid of, Stevie. Nothing like the last one. I promise you'll like this one. Mama will tell you so.” He stepped back to make room for Cornelia.

She had little choice but to reassure her son, even though it appeared as if she was agreeing to whatever madness Harry was indulging in. “It's all right, Stevie. We'll be on our way in a few minutes.”

She stepped back and away from the carriage. “Now, for heaven's sake,” she said sharply. “Stop playing games, Harry. And let me get back inside and on my way.”

He gripped her hands tightly. “Please, Nell, indulge me for half an hour. And then I give you my word, if you insist on continuing your journey, I'll not stand in your way.” His eyes begged her, and there was a catch in his voice that told her how desperately he was making this play.

She had thought she would never see him again, had resigned herself to a long future with only memories of those transcendent moments of pure bliss. She would remember his voice, his green, glowing eyes, his strong, deft hands. And she would be strong for her children, live only in her children, feeding off her memories.

And now, as she stood there on the cold common and read the desperate need in his eyes, she knew that that would not be enough…never would it be enough. She could at least hear him out.

She said nothing, but he read her acquiescence, and joy flooded his countenance. “Come then.” He lifted her onto his horse, mounting swiftly behind her. He encircled her waist, holding her against his body, as he reached round for the reins.

“Lead them in, Lester,” he called as he nudged Perseus's flanks, and the horse broke into an easy canter.

Cornelia said nothing. There seemed nothing to say. Once again she seemed to be caught up willy-nilly in the strange and mysterious world of Viscount Bonham, but this time she was a willing partner, fully conscious of what she'd agreed to. And capable of walking away.
Or was she?

They turned through a gateway flanked by two stone gateposts, and Perseus cantered up a long, curving driveway beneath the overarching branches of still-leafless beach trees. The driveway opened into a gravel sweep in front of an imposing mansion.

“What is this place?” Cornelia asked, breaking the silence that had become strangely companionable.

“Gracechurch Hall,” Harry answered, drawing rein at the foot of a wide flight of shallow stone steps leading up to a pair of double doors. He swung off his horse.

“Ah.” Cornelia nodded. “And is Her Grace in residence?”

“But of course,” he responded, his eyes sparkling with an anticipation that had banished his previous anxiety. He reached up to lift her down. “I would hardly bring you here without a chaperone in residence.”

Cornelia almost laughed, but then she sensed an underlying seriousness to the comment, and she looked at him sharply. “What's going on, Harry?”

“Wait and see,” he said, setting her on her feet, keeping his hands for a moment at her waist as if reluctant to let her go. “All I ask is half an hour of your time. The carriage with the children will be here shortly.”

He offered her his arm, and, with a tiny shrug, she took it and allowed him to escort her up the steps, past two liveried footmen who stood at the now-opened front door, and into an elegant, high-ceilinged hallway.

She drew off her gloves and gave her pelisse to one of the footmen. Then she looked inquiringly at Harry, who gestured towards a door on the far side of the hall.

“Would you care to go into the library, ma'am?”

Cornelia merely followed the direction of his hand and found herself in a paneled, book-lined apartment comfortably furnished with heavy leather armchairs and massive reading desks.

She took up a stand in the middle of the room. “So?”

“So,” Harry said, going to a sideboard where decanters and a coffeepot reposed. “Coffee…or something a little more potent?”

“It's barely eight in the morning,” she protested. “But coffee, if you please.”

He poured and handed her a cup. “My great-aunt keeps to her room in the morning, but she will be down by noon. Eliza, of course, is up and about. She's made provision for Linton and the children. Breakfast and such like.”

“That's very thoughtful. But could we stop this charade now? What's going on?” She put her coffee cup down on a table.

He reached into his pocket and drew out a document. He tapped it against his palm. “This is a special license. I would like us to be married this afternoon in the chapel here. It's all arranged…No, please, love, let me finish.” He spoke in a rush as if desperate to get the words out before she could interrupt him.

“I understand the difficulties with your father-in-law, but if they can be got over, would you marry me, Nell? Do you love me?”

He took a step towards her, holding out his hands, his face somehow naked, his eyes vulnerable. “I know you wouldn't say it before, but now, please…tell me the truth. Do you love me?”

She looked at him and spoke the simple truth. “Yes.” There was no earthly point in denying it.