Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (42 page)

Through her tears she heard the note of desperation in his voice.

"Everyone seems to think I'm omnipotent," he added quietly. "I make just as many stupid mistakes as everyone else, and sometimes on a grander scale."

It was true, she supposed. Even as a schoolboy everyone had expected him to lead them and solve their problems, ease their fears and bolster their confidence. No, even before that. He'd had his brother at his heels since birth.

Was that all she was, another burden? She couldn't bear it if he had returned to her out of simple duty.

"I'm sorry," she said and grabbed for her handkerchief. "I don't know what's come over me. I'm turning into a watering pot."

"You're a new mother. That's why I'm not making explanations or forcing you into decisions. You really aren't up to it yet, my dear." He kissed her brow gently and took away the support of his arms. Eleanor successfully stifled a protest.

"Just remember," he said with a tender smile, "there are many people, not least of them myself, who only want your happiness."

Eleanor thought his parting words sounded like a hollow joke. What happiness? She wanted to be young, virginal, in love, and wooed. Spilt milk indeed.

Later, as Jenny brushed out her hair and helped her to wash, they chatted about the evening's disaster and how Nicholas had handled things.

"Poor man," said the maid with a chuckle. "Having to look after the babe with all of you at a loss. He must have been right put out."

Eleanor thought of it with surprise. He'd seemed in control, but perhaps he had been as upset as the rest of them.

"What a strange group we are," she remarked. "The only one who knows anything about children is a man, and not the most domesticated man at that."

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I know about babes. I'm the oldest of ten, eight living. Can I help?"

So Jenny became the baby's nurse until a new one could be hired.

Chapter 15

The next day Eleanor declared herself to be recovered and insisted on leaving her bed and moving about on her own two feet. As no disaster resulted, her eccentricity was accepted. She even went with Amy for a slow walk around the frosty gardens and checked carefully that the clamps of potatoes and carrots were being properly managed.

"You like this country life, don't you?" said Amy.

"Yes, I do. There are real things to do and people who need help. People there to offer help when it's needed, too. Town life is so artificial."

"Will you live here then?" asked Amy, and then colored when she realized this was coming close to matters not yet clarified.

"Oh, yes," said Eleanor calmly, ignoring the other woman's alarm. "I think so. What better place to raise a child?"

The men had gone out with sporting guns and were not seen until the late afternoon. The sun was setting when Nicholas sought Eleanor out and found her feeding the baby.

"It's an onerous duty, isn't it?" he said, running a finger through the soft down on the oblivious baby's head. "Will you feel able to come down to dinner tonight?"

Eleanor was glad her head was lowered. Her heart started to thump in her chest.

Already?

"I see," she said, assuming an air of cool detachment. "It's to be the grand exoneration, is it?"

She saw the hand on the baby's head stop as if frozen and felt unable to breathe. Then the hand started to stroke again, and he spoke in his usual controlled tones.

"If you wish to put it that way. I didn't think, when I came, that I would find you lying-in. I wasn't even sure when the child was expected. I'd like to give you longer to recover, but we can't keep Amy, Peter, and Francis here indefinitely. I would rather they were available to you if you need them."

But I'm not ready, she said to herself. My nerves aren't up to this. Then she summoned her courage. She disciplined her voice to match his even tones, but she kept her face turned attentively to the baby.

"I will be down for dinner," she said.

Without further word, he left.

Eleanor took care to dress in a becoming gown. It was a warm dress of deep blue wool, trimmed with braid of the same color. She had Jenny take a little time from her nursery supervision to dress her hair in a town style, high on her head with tumbling curls. She had not been so fine for months.

She looked in the mirror. She had not regained her figure yet and her breasts were very large, but overall she thought she looked well. The long country summer had suited her.

She opened the box of Nicholas's magpie collection of jewelry and chose a heavy collar in the form of a snake of beaten gold with jeweled eyes. She had always thought it barbaric and that she would never wear it.

It seemed eminently suited to this occasion.

The dinner table was highly civilized, however. Everyone could sense a climax in the air and everyone was on their best behavior lest something explode.

Eleanor's nerves were on edge and she contributed little to the conversation, but she enjoyed the witty repartee between Nicholas and Miss Hurstman. She noted that although the lady would have denied it heartily, she had already been won over.

It seemed Amy, too, had found it impossible to harbor resentment, and though she was no longer boisterously fond of Nicholas there was no enmity.

Eleanor felt a spurt of resentment at the ease with which her husband bent people to his favor, at the way he could be so lighthearted when she, the innocent party, was taut with nerves. Everything was easy for him. It was so unfair.

As she watched him, however, she began to see it was a virtuoso performance. He too was strained beneath his light manner, and occasionally it showed. Once his eyes met hers across the table and the laughter in them faded. What did she see? It seemed to be a distant longing.

It did not speak of confidence at all.

Did he really place such importance on this explanation of his absence? My love, my love, she thought, do you not know I will never of my own will let you go? Even if what you have to say is the worst—that you fell again under the wiles of that woman, that you still are not totally free of her—still I will hold you if I can.

If that is what you want.

For that was her greatest fear: that his confession would be that he did not want to stay.

She felt her mind begin to spin into panic again and banished the thought. She concentrated instead on the discussion of the torturous progress of the Congress of Vienna, which was glittering and waltzing itself in circles.

Eventually it was time for the ladies to leave, and no explanation of Nicholas's conduct had been given. Eleanor was aware of a cowardly hope that he had changed his mind, but Nicholas stopped her as she would have risen.

"Would you not like to stay and take port with us, Eleanor?" he said with a smile that called back that time in the early days of their marriage. "I know Miss Hurstman will not object. Amy, do you dare to flout convention?"

Amy flashed a cautious glance at her slightly scandalized husband. "Since Eleanor has already introduced me to the delights of brandied tea..." Then she remembered those circumstances and went pinker. "I would not mind," she went on quickly, "but can we not remove to the drawing room and greater comfort?"

This was agreed upon, and soon they were all established there by the large fire. The long red velvet curtains were drawn against the dark, and oil lamps gave soft pools of light.

If Amy took only tiny sips of the unaccustomed drink, no one appeared to notice.

Eleanor braced herself for what was to come.

"As you know," said Nicholas, "I have chosen this time and place to explain my absence." Though the rest sat, he was standing slightly apart, making them all audience... or jury.

"This explanation is primarily to Eleanor, whom it most chiefly affects, but I felt it would be in her interests to have others around. Some people of a more skeptical disposition should listen to what I have to say and ask any questions they wish."

"Do you know," remarked Eleanor to no one in particular, "I'm not sure that isn't an insult to my intelligence and my moral integrity."

He colored a little and looked at her in surprise. "It truly isn't meant as such, my dear. I flatter myself you have some fondness for me, and I know you have a kind heart. It seems better this way."

Eleanor ventured no further objection. She'd made her point. She was paying critical attention to every word he said. He had wanted an objective hearing from her and that was what he was going to get.

He addressed them all again, glancing around the room. "I admit this set piece may verge on the melodramatic, but we have most of us been dragged through such a multitude of sordid and stupid dramas recently that it seems appropriate. I hope you are all agreeable to listening to what I have to say."

He left a silence, which no one chose to break.

"I will tell the story from the beginning," he went on. "Some of you do not know the whole. In fact, none of you do." He laughed shortly. "I talked of drama. Farce would be a nearer word except for the wickedness underpinning the whole.

"As you know, I have chosen to spend a great deal of my time in recent years traveling, and I have enjoyed many experiences. With a comfortable income and no particular responsibilities, I was free to be adventurous. As I also seem to be extraordinarily lucky, I have come through so far without much damage. I have always enjoyed the company of women. In Vienna two years ago I had an affair with Madame Therese Bellaire."

His voice was even, but he did not look at Eleanor. "The lady was, as you know, a Cyprian and frequently an abbess, but she was particular in the men she chose for her own pleasure. Her penchant is for young men, and her chief delight is to entangle raw young sprigs, teach them to please her, and then discard them to languish. She thought to enjoy this game with me, though I didn't realize it at the time. I treated her as a mistress, and when I wished to move on I did so. She never forgave me. She apparently persuaded herself that she was brokenhearted. Certainly some strong force motivated her to seek revenge. I think it was plain outrage.

"I gave no further thought to her. Nearly a year ago I was heading slowly for these shores when I became inadvertently involved with espionage. In the days after Napoleon's abdication I met a young Englishman in Paris. We were casual acquaintances only. One night I arrived at his lodgings to dine and found him dying of a bullet wound. He managed to give me a message of sorts, poor Richard, and when I conveyed it to the embassy I discovered he had suspected Therese of involvement in a plot to restore Napoleon.

"I couldn't imagine that Therese would involve herself in such a thing, but the Foreign Office took it very seriously. I found myself entangled. They already had a dossier on Therese because of some previous activities. Unfortunately, this included the information that I had been her lover and that she was supposed to be still desperately in love with me. It was Lord Melcham who decided I was the perfect person to link up with her and discover the details of the plot, especially as she appeared to be moving her operations to London."

He smiled ruefully. "I was ordered to serve my country. What could I do? Therese had temporarily disappeared, and so I waited in Paris for news of her whereabouts and sent a couple of my companions over to London to check her operations there. I will admit I was enjoying myself. It was exciting. It gave my rather aimless life a purpose, possibly a noble one."

"Then, of course," he said flatly, "I got married. The details of that need not concern us, but-"

"Nonsense!" broke in Eleanor forcefully. "If I understand things," she continued more calmly, "you are asking our friends to judge you on your conduct as a married man. I refuse to allow this to go any further unless you tell the whole story."

There was a long silence as their eyes clashed.

"Then it will go no further," he said.

Eleanor swallowed. "Having started, it must go on. I will tell them."

"No," he said in a tone of absolute command. "I am prepared to bare my soul, but that is all."

"Nicholas, these are our friends," Eleanor said unbendingly. "They have wondered at us both. They deserve to know. They will not spread the tale."