In the Garden of Disgrace (32 page)

The clock chimed the half hour and instantly
Riley, as though listening for that very sound, banged on the door
once with his meaty fist. “It’s time m’lady.”

Resigned, at least to the next few hours,
Jillian opened the door and followed the servant down the stairs to
the dining room.

Lionel was already there and seated but rose
when he saw her. From the looks of him he had spent the last thirty
minutes delving deeper into the brandy bottle, for his cheeks had
taken on the reddened appearance of one who had been drinking.

“Come in, come in,” he said expansively,
helping Jillian to the table. He turned to Riley. “Serve the entire
meal and then retire, but stay close by. If I need you I’ll
call.”

They sat without speaking while the servant
did as he was told. Several hot dishes were plopped in the middle
of the table before Riley withdrew, lumbering from the room.
Jillian did not move but waited for her “host” to take the
lead.

“Hungry?” Lionel asked her.

“Not really, no.”

“Neither am I. I’m thirsty, though.” The
marquess reached for the brandy decanter at his elbow. “Care for
any?” She shook her head, and he shrugged before filling his
glass.

“Did that man cook the dinner?” Jillian
asked because she could not believe Riley was capable of such a
feat.

“I have a day servant who comes in. She’s
gone now,” he said meaningfully.

“What is this place, my lord? You intimated
this is where you reside, but I know Meredith would never live
here.”

“And so she doesn’t. But I do—most of the
time at any rate. Thus I didn’t really lie to you.” He sipped his
drink, making a display of rolling it on his tongue before allowing
the liquid to slip down his throat.

“You are being disingenuous, Lionel. You’ve
lied to me and you know it. I want to know why you brought me here.
What is the mistake you are trying to prevent me from making?”

“Let’s eat first,” he said smoothly.

“We’re not hungry, remember?”

“Fill the plates, Jillian.”

He was well on his way to being drunk, and
drunken people rarely made an effort to be reasonable. She filled
the plates.

When she completed the task, she said, “Now,
I’ve done as you have asked. Tell me why I’m here.”

The marquess leaned forward and placed his
drink on the table. “I’m afraid you are becoming serious about
Wickham.”

“And if I am?”

“He’s no good for you.” He snarled the
words.

“I happen to think he is very good for
me.”

“I’m better.”

Jillian blinked at him. “Have you lost your
mind? You are a married man. How could you possibly be better for
me?”

“Because I truly care about you.”

“Adrian says he loves me. He has asked me to
marry him.”

“Bah!”

“Why do you hate him so?”

Lionel picked up his glass again and took
another mouthful. “I knew him at university. He never hid his
contempt for me, even years later and him a murderer—how
dare
he judge me? And lest we forget, I lost you because of
him.”

“Lionel,” Jillian said in a gentle voice,
“it doesn’t signify. I love Adrian. I want to marry him. Somehow,
after all this time it seems as though it was meant to be, that
everything has come full circle.”

“I could strangle you for saying that,” he
ground out, his features now malevolent. He stood from the table,
drink in hand, and walked across the room. When he turned to look
at her his manner had become sly. “So you think he loves you, do
you?”

Jillian swallowed over a lump of sudden
apprehension. “He says he does—I trust him.”

“What if I could prove he does not, what
would you say then?”

“Be careful, Lionel, for I’m not prepared to
believe you,” Jillian had grabbed the edge of the table, gripping
so hard the tips of her fingers turned white.

“Your fancy man has revealed your
relationship with him in a rather unsavory way,” he said, spite
like a noxious film coating his words. “When he was in London he
placed a wager in the book at White’s for all to see.”

“What was the bet?” she whispered.

“I see perhaps you are not as indifferent as
you would like me to think.”

“What was the bet?” she demanded again.

“Ten thousand pounds on the promise that
before the end of the year you will be his wife.”

Jillian wanted to speak, but she could not
find the strength. Instead, she stared at him mute and stricken. At
last, she said, “Why—?” the word coming out in a croak. She
swallowed and tried again. “What would be the point of doing such a
thing?”

“Who knows, a man like that, what he is
thinking?” Lionel murmured. He ran an index finger around the rim
of his glass. “Pride? Perhaps a challenge was made and he felt
compelled to meet it. You know how men are. They drink, they
gamble.”

“I’m sure you would know about that, my
lord.”

“Come on, Jillian, Wickham received his
reputation because he could not refuse a dare. The thing to
remember is that he has dealt you a very public humiliation. The
rumor of that wager is rife, not only in London but in Bath also.
Is that the deed of a man who is in love? Makes one wonder,” he
continued slyly, “if his marriage proposal is about him winning a
bet.”

Jillian stared at him bleakly. It was as
though he had stabbed her, cleaving her breast in two, and the love
in her heart, all her hopes for the future, flowed unchecked
through the gaping wound. What she felt surpassed pain, surpassed
her ability to cry. Nevertheless, through the grief a tiny voice in
the back of her mind reminded her that Lionel did not wish her
relationship with Adrian to flourish. For now she would hang on to
that thought because for her sanity she must.

“Do you think by telling me this that I will
fall into your arms?” she asked, determined to hide her misery from
him. “Do you have the ridiculous notion that one man is as good as
the next?”

“What I think is if we remove the
distraction of Wickham then you will be able to rediscover your
feelings for me.”

“Your conceit is truly amazing, Lionel. Let
me tell you something. The day you cried off because of a scandal
is the day I fell out of love with you. Were Adrian to disappear
from the earth without a trace, I still would feel nothing more for
you than contempt.”

He had the gall to look hurt. “I don’t
believe you. I still love you—you must still love me.”

Jillian pushed back her chair and stood.
“Take me home, my lord, and go back to your wife. It is Meredith
who loves you.”

She opened her mouth to mention his
impending fatherhood, but a sense of honor—an honor that might be
misplaced—kept her from revealing Meredith’s secret.

The marquess walked across the room,
thrusting her chair out of his way to reach her side. He put his
glass on the table and grabbed her, pulling her into his arms. He
tried to kiss her but she squirmed frantically, tossing her head
from side to side, thus his lips landed on her jaw.

“Jillian,” he beseeched her, “come above
stairs with me. Let me prove my feelings for you.”

Smelling the brandy on his breath and the
strange odor of nervous sweat that emanated from his body, she was
overcome by nausea. Jillian was very glad she had not eaten dinner,
for her rolling stomach would have tossed the meal at him as an
answer. “Do you intend to force me, Lionel?” she asked, struggling
against him, “for that is the only way it will happen.”

“I’ve never forced a woman in my life,” he
said, sounding incensed. “How could you suggest such a thing?”

“Seems to me that’s what you are
suggesting.”

“Why do you object? Is it your reputation?
That’s gone. What could it matter to you now? And there are things
you do not understand, things a mature woman should not have to
live without,” here his voice deepened, “things I could show
you.”

“I understand perfectly about those things,
Lionel. There is nothing you can show me.” She knew the minute the
words left her mouth that she had made a mistake.

His eyes narrowed, the black of his pupils
obliterating the gray. “You’ve been with Wickham, haven’t you?” He
shook her. “Haven’t you?”

Jillian’s head snapped back and she looked
at him, aghast.

“I can see it in your face!” he
bellowed.

Lionel threw her from him and she tripped
over the chair, falling to the floor. She scrambled to her feet and
backed away, but he made no effort to follow. Instead, he stared at
her, his gaze turning thoughtful.

“Perhaps there is no reason to use scruples
when dealing with a harlot,” he said. “After all, what do you have
to lose? Certainly not your virtue. And,” he continued, “I think a
comparison would be in order. If you are to choose the man, might
as well have all the facts.”

“I’ve made my choice. Nothing you do will
change that.”

“Wickham might not feel that way.”

“So, now you wish to play the
despoiler?”

He ignored her. “Riley!” he called to his
man. When the servant appeared in the doorway, he said, “Take Lady
Jillian to her room. Make certain she stays there.”

“What are you going to do, Lionel?”

“Haven’t decided yet. I’ve some thinking to
do. But be ready for me,” she saw him share a lascivious grin with
Riley, “because one way or the other I’ll be up to see you
tonight.”

A reprieve and a threat all at once. She
wanted to be consoled by the respite, but his promised visit made
her shudder with apprehension. As Jillian preceded Riley up the
stairs, one thing came clear to her—she’d rather be dead than be
touched by Lionel.

She hoped it would not come to that.

*****

Three hours before dawn Adrian, wearily
lugging his satchel, released the lock to his room in Bath. He
stopped because a note had been posted on his door. Grabbing the
piece of paper, he stepped inside and closed the door behind
him.

He had arrived one day before he had
planned, determined not to be away from Jillian any longer than
necessary—like a lovesick school lad, he thought wryly. He dropped
his bag and opened the missive, scanning the contents.

“
Bloody hell!”
he roared, sudden fear
seizing him.

It was a scrawled message from Phillip
Angsley. Sometime on the previous afternoon—that must be nearly ten
hours ago by now—Jillian had disappeared from the townhouse she
shared with her aunt. As soon as Adrian returned from his trip, it
would be appreciated if he would come there to help in the
search.

The earl tossed the note aside and strode
from the room, the exhaustion falling from him as though it had not
existed only moments earlier. Outside he hailed a hack, assuming
that would be quicker than bringing around his carriage. But the
hour being advanced and the streets deserted, it was ten minutes
before he secured a ride. By that time he frothed with impotent
rage.

Adrian arrived at the townhouse at thirty
minutes past three in the morning. Every light in the place was lit
and he pounded on the door, the anxiety he felt flowing through his
fist. His knock was answered almost immediately.

“Wickham, thank God, man,” Phillip Angsley
greeted. “Can’t say how happy I am to see you.”

The earl nodded curtly, brushing past the
young man and into the hall. “Any news?” he asked tightly.

Phillip shook his head. “None. I’ve been
making discreet inquiries since yesterday, but I’m afraid to keep
the situation quiet any longer.”

“Do you have any information about what
happened?”

“Hannah knows more than anyone, and that’s
not much.”

“Bring her here,” Adrian said.

Phillip dashed up the stairs, and moments
later appeared on the landing with the maid. She followed Mr.
Angsley down the steps, her face a mask of grief-stricken
misery.

“This is Hannah, Jillian’s maid,” Phillip
said. “Tell Lord Wickham what you know, please.”

The earl acknowledged her with a nod.
“Hannah and I are acquainted with each other.”

“I know so little, my lord,” the maid began,
her voice shaking uncontrollably. “She just vanished.”

“Hannah,” Adrian tried to keep his voice
calm, “anything you can remember would be helpful.
Anything.
”

“It’s like I told Mr. Angsley yesterday.
About five o’clock Mr. Biggs—he’s the footman—came to me and said
he was leaving for his trip to London—his sister’s getting married.
The mistress was entertaining in the parlor and I should check on
her shortly. I said I would, and not long after that—”

“How long?” Adrian interrupted.

“Twenty minutes, maybe less, my lord.
Anyway, when I went to make certain she was all right, she was
gone.” The maid began to bawl then, lifting her apron to dab at her
eyes.

“This Biggs didn’t tell you who was with
your mistress?” the earl inquired, unable to hide his
impatience.

“No, my lord,” she continued to weep, “I
should have asked, I know. It’s my fault.”

“That hardly seems fair,” the earl muttered.
“I suspect there are several factors involved here, most unknown to
you, so we’ll not place blame yet.” He paused. “Is there any chance
your lady simply went out for the evening, not realizing how upset
everyone would be?”

“Overnight?” Phillip put in. “Without
letting anyone know? That would be irresponsible and Jillian is not
irresponsible. Besides, where would she go? Society is not a very
friendly place to her right now.”

“Just so,” Adrian said. “Where is Miss
Milford?”

“Staying with a friend,” Phillip answered.
“She became hysterical last evening when she heard, and we thought
it best if she was with someone who could keep her calm until we
discover what has happened to my cousin. I-I admit I expected Jilly
to surface before now,” he said, sounding emotional.