Authors: Compromised
Sir Geoffrey turned white.
“Her sleeve, madam, was torn dancing, or so she told me,” Max replied evenly.
“We did have such trouble gettin’ it to fit right earlier, if you recall, my Lady,” Mrs. Bibb piped up, but Sir Geoffrey held up his hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bibb—you may go,” he said wearily.
“Well, Lord Fontaine,” Sir Geoffrey said, after Mrs. Bibb left the room, “it looks like you may get your wish after all.”
“What wish?” Romilla inquired.
“To marry Evangeline, my dear. And quickly.”
“
I
don’t like this, not one bit.”
“I know dearest, but what are we to do?”
It had been such a nice party last night. He didn’t need this, Sir Geoffrey thought, he really didn’t. He had issues to discuss with his estate manager and reports to give on Portuguese cooperation to Parliament, and he desperately wanted the comfort of a cigar. But suddenly he was mired waist deep in domestic mess. First Gail, now Evangeline, and this man asking to marry her—quickly!
“We? You were supposed to ensure their debut!” Sir Geoffrey thundered. “You were supposed to make certain everything my daughters did reflected well upon themselves and on me!”
He had dismissed Lord Fontaine from the library, but instructed him not to leave the house. Sir Geoffrey also warned Morrison that Lord Fontaine was not to go anywhere near Evangeline or the drawing room. When Morrison knocked on the door and assured them that the young gentleman had wisely decided to take a tour of the music room, Sir Geoffrey and Romilla began their discussion in earnest.
Sir Geoffrey talked. And paced. And yelled. And desperately wanted a cigar. Romilla sat on the couch and watched.
“And not only Gail—whose injuries to herself are comparatively minor—but Evangeline!” Sir Geoffrey raged after a great long while. “I know it was ‘circumstance,’ but she should have known better! She always knows better!”
Romilla sighed. “I almost wish it was Abigail who was in the conservatory with him. Evangeline has so much promise…”
Sir Geoffrey crossed his arms over his chest. “Not everyone dismisses Gail as easily as you do, my dear.”
Romilla blanched, then stuttered. “I…I don’t dismiss her. I just meant—” But Sir Geoffrey had already moved on.
“The pertinent question now is what are we going to do?” He smacked his fist against the desk, causing all manner of quills, jars, and papers to jump. Romilla watched as Sir Geoffrey’s hand found its way into his breast pocket and pulled out a cigar. She frowned as he cut and lit it.
“I do wish you wouldn’t smoke, dearest.”
“Right now, darling”—Sir Geoffrey exhaled a long tendril of blue smoke—“I really don’t give a bloody damn.”
A long silence ensued. The clock ticked on the mantel. Romilla concentrated on smoothing an indiscernible fold in her skirt, while her husband rolled the cigar between his fingers, creating patterns in the escaping smoke.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a while, “for yelling just now.”
Romilla smiled at him, her eyes softening with forgiveness.
“Do you believe anything actually happened between them?” she asked.
“Do I think my daughter’s person has been compromised beyond all redemption? No. Any cad who would do such a thing would never come and confess to her parents the next morning.”
“What about the sleeve?” Romilla asked.
Sir Geoffrey let his breath go in a long sigh. “That’s a problem. Gossip is ever so much more interesting with visual details.”
“It is possible it ripped on the dance floor,” Romilla added hopefully. “It came back from the dressmaker’s tight across the shoulders, Mrs. Bibb was correct there.”
“If so, why weren’t you informed? Why didn’t a lady’s maid attend to Evangeline in the powder room?”
“Dearest”—Romilla held up her hands—“I simply don’t know.”
Sir Geoffrey, all out of sighs and blusters, resigned himself to slumping in his chair. “She may not have been compromised physically, but her reputation is a different story. If this gets out…”
Romilla gave a ladylike snort. “Darling, we’ve been here three weeks, and I can already tell you the latest gossip about everyone on this square, from the name of Mr. Watling’s latest opera dancer, to how many kittens the Pickerings’ tomcat sired. Believe me, rumors will get around. And by the time they get back to us, it won’t be kissing in the conservatory with a torn sleeve, it will be ravaging in the bedroom naked to the waist. An allusion’s all that’s needed to seem real.”
Sir Geoffrey went white at the imagery—then red. “Her sleeve, what if he did…by god, she’s just a child!”
“She’s twenty, not a child,” Romilla replied quietly.
“She’s my child.”
Romilla was silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then—
“It could be worse, you realize. No dearest, listen to me for a moment,” for Sir Geoffrey had begun a scoff of disbelief. “While Lord Fontaine would not be my first choice, consider, he has funds—or will once he inherits. True, he is not the toast of society, but I know of no unappealing rumors attached to him. His birth and breeding are impeccable, and although his father hasn’t deigned to sit in the House of Lords for years, maybe Lord Fontaine is not wholly without merit. With the exception of his behavior last night, he seems intelligent. And Evangeline would be a countess. A peer no one could disparage.”
A look of consideration played over Sir Geoffrey’s face. “What-ifs” drifted in front of his eyes. But…
“A hasty marriage would do terrible damage to my prospects—Countess or no.”
“Then maybe we can buy some time.” Romilla rose and began to pace in the same circle Sir Geoffrey had before. “You’re right, if a wedding were to take place tomorrow, it would only serve as proof of some indiscretion. And that would reflect badly on us all. But, if we ignore the rumors and refuse to allow Lord Fontaine anywhere near us, the rumors would be fueled and still blacken our name. We are lucky in one regard—that any gossip would have originated with the servants. If one of the guests had discovered them, we would be done for.”
“Why is that lucky?” Sir Geoffrey groused. “You’ve told me a dozen times that the best and most useful information originates downstairs, not up.”
Romilla dismissed this with a shrug. “It’s one of the great ironies of Society.”
She stopped pacing and came to stand before her husband. He reached for her hand.
“What we’ll do,” she said softly, “is allow Lord Fontaine to outwardly court Evangeline, while they are secretly engaged. Only the family will know, not even the servants. The fact that he is so attentive to Evangeline in a gentlemanly fashion will stem off some of the meaner gossip. When we announce the betrothal in, oh, a month’s time, and when the wedding occurs, it will seem to have happened naturally.”
Sir Geoffrey looked at his wife, impressed. “You put the schemings of Parliament to shame, darling,” he said with appreciation.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, dearest.” She hesitated a moment. “My only fear is if he doesn’t take to her. What if they don’t get on well?”
“He’s the one who wants to marry her. Besides, from what was reported last night, they get on very well indeed,” Sir Geoffrey replied. And his wife was forced to agree. He looked at the smoke escaping from his cigar, considered the options for a moment—and saw very few.
“I will allow this,” Sir Geoffrey said, rising from the side of the desk, “on one condition. That Evangeline agrees, of her own free will. After all, no one has asked her if she
wants
to marry him. But I warn you, my dear, if she says no now, we will support her, and we will weather the scandal as a family.” Sir Geoffrey stubbed out the cigar, muttering, “Although she had better say yes.” He stood and crossed to his wife. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked her dead in the eye.
“So my dear, what do you say?”
Romilla rubbed her chin, thoughtful. “Send for Evangeline.”
JUST
outside of the library, Gail tiptoed downstairs. She was clean, dressed, and surprisingly bright eyed, given her physical state not half an hour ago. Mrs. Bibb’s cure-all really did have restorative powers. Perhaps she could bottle and sell it, like so many medicines Gail saw advertised in the
Times
—all promising freedom from such ailments as gout, pneumonia, and women’s complaints. Making certain to step over the third stair from the bottom (for it squeaked abominably), Gail walked quickly down the hall, careful to avoid the library doors, where she could hear the rumblings of her father’s voice. She thought briefly about going into the drawing room, knowing Evangeline was there—and Gail wouldn’t mind a friendly face. But the fear of meeting Romilla, who was surely sitting next to her protégée, outweighed any reassurance she could receive from her sister. Gail knew that she would eventually have to meet with her stepmother, but she would prefer to avoid it as long as possible.
Deftly stepping into a cupboard to avoid being seen by a pair of maids making their way to the stairs with fresh linens, Gail poked her head out only after she heard their footsteps retreating. She wasn’t going to chance running into anyone. Unfortunately, there were very few places for privacy in Number Seven. Servants were everywhere, righting the house from last night’s festivities, as were morning callers spilling out from the drawing room into the hall. She could go to the music room, but if she were to play one note, Romilla would come charging up the stairs. There was only one place that Gail thought might be unoccupied.
Seeing the coast was clear, Gail slipped down the hall into the ballroom and across the floor to a hidden door by the balcony.
MAX
did as he had said he would, retreating to the music room, which overlooked the rear gardens—more accurately, overlooked the one tree Number Seven had claim to. The window was open, but Max barely registered the sweet spring breeze in the air, as he kept checking his pocket watch at obscenely close intervals.
Ten more minutes. Nine and three quarters. Nine and a half…He couldn’t even properly enjoy the brilliant beauty of the music room—its pianoforte gleamingly grand in the room’s center. Nor could he see the loveliness of the new buds on the lonely tree, the small, light green leaves that hinted at something richer. Nay, his mind was far too preoccupied.
Max guessed Sir Geoffrey and Lady Alton’s discussion could go on some time. They would either have decided immediately (and if so, he wouldn’t be standing in the music room right now, or standing period, most likely), or they would be debating his future for hours. Actually, Max wasn’t as worried on that score as he probably should be—in fact the accidental revelation of last night’s indiscretion might have furthered his actual purpose to marry Evangeline—albeit not the way he had hoped. Parents were never inclined to think well of men who compromised their daughters, even if they did get married.
Nay, Max wasn’t concerned about his future in-laws. In truth, he was counting the minutes till he met with his future wife.
Eight and a half minutes. Eight and a quarter…Max plunked himself on the pianoforte’s bench, accidentally resting his elbow on the keys, producing a horrid chord. He promptly stood up again. His body was a bundle of nerves, and he had twice his normal energy. He didn’t know what to do with himself when time refused to move at its proper pace.
He was banned from the drawing room, but that did not prevent Evangeline from leaving it, if she was so inclined. Max desperately wanted to see Evangeline again—not only to ascertain that she was well after leaving so abruptly the previous evening. He needed to look into her eyes, to make certain that what he saw there before wasn’t just a trick of moonlight. He paced his way back to the window. Next to the one tree was the glass conservatory’s outer wall, which took up most of the rear of the house. Was it possible he spied movement within its translucent shell? He checked his watch one last time before dropping it into his pocket.
Seven minutes, fifty seconds.
Close enough, he thought, as he headed toward the door, barely restraining himself from breaking into a run.
Across the hall, tiptoeing through the already immaculate ballroom, Max found the hidden door rather neatly in the sunlight, as opposed to the warm glow of a candlelit ballroom. He found the latch and turned it with an easily recalled flick of the wrist, stepping into his remembered heaven.
The garden looked different in the daylight. The tall trees that had loomed like shadowed gatekeepers now stood proud and thick with leaves, reaching for the sun coming through the glass ceiling above. The moonlight that had cut through the mist of the heated atmosphere was now gone. He could see the dirt surrounding the plants, the seams of the cobblestones in the winding path. His footsteps clipped against the stone, through the trees, under the bower of white-belled flowers, that were tinted pink by day, and he could see the green painted trellis that supported them beneath the vines. It was still a beautiful garden, a remarkable conservatory in an English climate. But it lost some of its magic when one could see the puppeteer’s strings.
Max tossed these thoughts aside. What did it matter that the garden looked different in the harsh brightness of day? It was still the conservatory where he had met with his future (and desired, he told himself ) bride, Evangeline. He could still hear the trickle of water from the fountain he had been standing in when he first laid eyes upon her. Max turned sharply on the path and let his feet go where his thoughts were taking them. As he approached the fountain, he heard a rustling ahead.
Could it be?
Was she here?
He moved faster, rounded the corner of the path and emerged from its shadows.
She sat in a high-backed stone bench, the wings of its sides obscuring her face from view. But he could see the length of her yellow skirts swirling about the flagstones, a toe of her leather shoe sitting against one of the surlier stone frogs edging the fountain.