For what remained of the hour’s visit, Christine was forced to abandon her role as spectator. She was drawn into various conversations and somehow ended up with the Marquess of Attingsborough seated beside her instead of Justin. And an extremely charming gentleman he was too. He was the one who escorted her outside when it was time to leave and helped her mount Trixie, who eyed her with patient resignation while she was still on the ground and behaved with magnificent docility after she was in the saddle, her body and her hands determinedly relaxed.
“Mrs. Derrick,” the marquess said before moving back, “may I hope that you will save a set for me at the Lindsey ball? The first, perhaps?”
“Thank you.” She smiled down at him. “I will indeed.”
Justin, she could see, had attached himself to the Duke of Bewcastle and held him in conversation. Doubtless he was keeping his promise to defend her from his company as much as possible. Sometimes, she thought disloyally—and for the first time since she had known him—Justin could be rather tiresome.
But she did not have to fear that Trixie would act up without the steadying, dominating influence of Noble. Lord Aidan fell in beside her, and Christine, remembering that he had been a cavalry colonel, felt as safe as it was possible to feel when perched sideways on the back of a horse a mile off the ground.
19
A
LTHOUGH
J
USTIN
M
AGNUS WAS
M
OWBURY
’
S BROTHER
and Wulfric felt the greatest respect for his friend, who was enjoying the chance to potter about in the library at Lindsey Hall this morning, he had never felt any affinity with the younger man. He had even wondered with considerable distaste if jealousy might partly account for his dislike, since Magnus was so clearly a close friend of Mrs. Derrick.
But he had lain awake half the night, thinking. Then he had got up very early and gone for a brisk walk and thought some more. And since it was still early when he returned to the house, he had sat in his library, thinking.
It was, in fact, Wulfric who had maneuvered Magnus into riding back to Lindsey Hall with him, though the younger man was probably under the impression that it was the other way around.
“Attingsborough is taking his time with his farewells,” Wulfric commented frostily. “He ought to have found time enough in the drawing room to say all he needed to say.”
He wondered if those few words would be cue enough. If they were not, then he was doomed to a tedious ride back when his brothers and sisters had been just as eager to pair him with Mrs. Derrick this time as they had on the way here. And it could not be for Amy Hutchinson’s sake on this leg of the journey, since Aunt Rochester was not here to try to force the girl on him. His siblings were
matchmaking,
by thunder.
“Attingsborough has been one of London’s most notorious rakes for years,” Magnus said pleasantly as they rode off, a little apart from the rest of the group.
It was the first Wulfric had heard of it. Attingsborough had undoubtedly been one of the greatest matrimonial prizes on the market for years past, and it was unlikely that he lived like a monk in the meanwhile. But a rake?
He did not offer any comment beyond a noncommittal grunt. He waited to see what might come next.
“It would be unfair to accuse Chrissie of flirting with him, though,” Magnus said. “For all that she has been married and has some experience of life with the
ton,
she is really no match for someone like Attingsborough, is she? And I suppose it was natural that he pick her out of the crowd since Lady Muir is his cousin and Whitleaf was monopolizing Miss Hutchinson and there
was
no other unattached lady. Besides which, Chrissie is rather pretty and far more charming than she realizes.”
“Quite so,” Wulfric said, sounding bored.
“I suppose you are annoyed with her for paying so much attention to him,” Magnus said. “One cannot fail to notice—if you will forgive my saying so—that you admire her yourself. I don’t blame you for being a trifle irritated. But she is my dearest friend, and I must speak up in her defense. You must not blame her when men like Kitredge and Attingsborough want her too. It is not her fault. She has always had that effect on men. She cannot help it. Oscar made her life miserable by accusing her all their married life of flirting and even going beyond flirtation. Hermione and Basil accused her of the same thing. And, of course, there was all the cover-up over Oscar’s death, which they blamed on her too. It was
not
her fault. I just want to make sure that you understand that.”
“It would appear to me,” Wulfric said coldly, “that you protest too much. In my experience there is rarely smoke where there is not also fire.”
Magnus sighed. “What do you expect me to say?” he asked. “Chrissie is my friend. And of course she is innocent. I would defend her with my last breath. Even if there had been hundreds of instances since I have known her instead of just dozens, I would have believed her every time. That is what friends do.”
Wulfric, who had taken the safest route to Alvesley for the sake of Mrs. Derrick, who was not a good rider, felt no such inhibitions on the way back. They were trotting across a field and might have turned their course slightly to pass through an open gate, but he did not swerve from his path. He spurred his horse forward and made for the highest, thickest part of the hedge. Noble soared over it with at least a foot to spare. Wulfric gritted his teeth and waited for the other man to clear the hedge too and catch up with him.
“Goodness,” Magnus said with a laugh, “I have not done anything so reckless for a long while.”
“I believe,” Wulfric said, his voice steely, his cold eyes resting on the other man, “you are in love with Mrs. Derrick yourself. I believe you would say anything in her defense. I believe you would even perjure yourself if it were necessary.”
Justin Magnus rode in silence for a while. “Trust is as essential to friendship as it is to love, you see,” he said. “I trust Chrissie. I always have and always will. If you love her, Bewcastle, or are in any way fond of her, then you will trust her too—even when she appears to have been indiscreet. You are a man of the world. Oscar was not, and neither was he strong. He wanted her all to himself.
Not
that she would ever actually
do
anything indiscreet. I am not saying that—quite the contrary, in fact. Chrissie is the soul of honor. But sometimes it just seems otherwise—as it did the day before Oscar died, when she was alone with a man at Winwood Abbey for a whole hour with no one else there to chaperon her. I tried to give her an alibi because I
trusted
her when she said nothing had happened. But even so, she had been indiscreet, you see—
innocently
indiscreet. But I am talking too much. You would not be interested in that particular incident.”
“Quite so,” Wulfric said faintly.
“I have promised to keep you from her as much as I can,” Magnus said with a frank, rueful grin. “That is why I am riding with you now. I suppose the idea of being a duchess tempts her—just as the chance of being the Countess of Kitredge did. It would be quite a coup for a schoolmaster’s daughter after all, would it not? But at the same time, you see, she is afraid of you—afraid that you would be stricter with her than Oscar was. She needs to be free to . . .”
“Flirt?” Wulfric suggested.
“That is a word I do not like.” Magnus sounded annoyed. “Chrissie never flirts. She needs to be free to be herself.”
“Free to pursue her, er, friendships with other gentlemen,” Wulfric said.
“Well, yes, if you like,” Magnus conceded. “But
innocent
friendships.”
“Quite so.” The ride from Alvesley had never seemed half so long, Wulfric thought as Lindsey Hall came into sight at last. “But I find this conversation tedious, Magnus. Contrary to what you seem to believe, my interest in Mrs. Derrick is really quite minimal. And of course I do not believe one word in ten of what you say about her. Your loyalty is admirable, but the woman is clearly a strumpet.”
He turned his horse thankfully onto the elm drive leading up to the house.
“Your grace!”
Magnus sounded shocked to the core. “I would have you know that you are speaking of my cousin by marriage and my
friend
.”
“Whom you would defend with your life,” Wulfric said. “I understand perfectly. A man who is besotted will believe anything he wishes to believe—or rather will ignore anything he does
not
wish to believe. If you have ridden home with me not only to protect Mrs. Derrick from my oppressive company but also to plead her case with me, you have failed miserably. And that is my final word on the matter.”
“But—”
Wulfric spurred his horse on ahead of the other and made for the stable block.
Never feel anger. It is counterproductive. It is also unnecessary.
If something needs to be said, say it. If something needs to be done, do it.
Never feel anger. Above all else, never show anger.
Anger is a mark of weakness.
The old lessons had been well learned. But today his mastery of them was being severely tested. Today he felt the urge to kill—with his bare hands.
Today he was very, very angry.
T
HE
M
ARQUESS AND
Marchioness of Hallmere were about to sing a duet, though the marchioness had protested when it was first suggested until goaded into it by two of her brothers.
“Lord love us,” Lord Rannulf said, grinning, “you have never taught Free to
sing,
Joshua?”
“I have heard, Ralf,” Lord Alleyne said, “that in the damp climate of Cornwall saws quickly become rusty.”
Bertie and Hector laughed heartily, the Marchioness of Rochester raised her lorgnette to her eyes, Mrs. Pritchard, her face wreathed in smiles, wagged a finger at Lord Alleyne and reminded him that the Welsh were renowned for their singing
and
their damp climate, and Lady Freyja got to her feet with awful dignity.
“Josh,” she said, “we will sing. And then, if anyone has more rusty saw jokes, I will poke a few noses.”
“No one does it better, sweetheart,” he said, laughing. “Singing, I mean.”
They were all entertaining themselves for the evening. Miss Hutchinson had played the pianoforte, Lady Rannulf had brought Desdemona alive for them with a startling talent for acting, Hector had given one of his rare performances of magic and sleight of hand, and now the duet was about to begin.
Christine was trying to enjoy herself. There was really no reason why she should not. It had been a full, active day. After the morning ride and visit and luncheon spent in conversation with Baron Weston, she had gone back outside with most of the younger people and their children. She had frolicked on a spacious lawn with them, playing a ball game with the older children and a few adults while others played ring-around-the-rosy with the infants and the Earl of Rosthorn rocked his baby in his arms and Lady Alleyne cuddled the Hallmeres’. Then she had gone for a long walk with Justin.
She had certainly been wise in avoiding Bewcastle and ignoring his attentions, Justin had told her with a sympathetic pat on her hand. The man was downright morose and would make a horribly jealous husband to some poor lady. He had been irritated over the fact that the Marquess of Attingsborough had escorted Chrissie out of the house and helped her into the saddle and then spoke a few words of farewell to her.
“Which was grossly unfair of him,” he had added, “since Whitleaf was doing as much for Miss Hutchinson. But he fancies you, you see, Chrissie, and so wants all your attention for himself. I told him in no uncertain terms that you are a free spirit, that you need to be free to be you. I don’t care if he liked it or not.”
The duke had remained at the house all afternoon—as far as Christine knew anyway. And though he had appeared at the dinner table—looking arctic and taking almost no part in the conversation—he had not come to the drawing room when the gentlemen joined the ladies there.
It did not matter to Christine. Of course it did not. It had been foolish of her to quarrel with him yesterday and then to confide in him. His own revelations this morning about his family and neighbors meant nothing at all. He had merely been making conversation.
And then, just as the marquess and marchioness were seating themselves on the bench before the pianoforte, Christine felt a light touch on her shoulder and looked up to find a footman bending over her to speak softly in her ear.
“His grace begs the favor of your company in the library, ma’am,” he said.
Christine looked at him in surprise. But then she could see that Hermione and Basil were on their feet and making their way toward the door. They had been invited too? She rose and made her way from the room as the music began.
The three of them went downstairs together after exchanging somewhat embarrassed looks. Although there had been no open hostility during the past couple of days, they had kept aloof from one another as if by mutual consent.
“What is this about?” Hermione asked.
“I daresay Bewcastle wishes to be sociable but does not wish to sit in a crowded drawing room,” Basil said.
Christine said nothing.
The same footman who had come to fetch them went on ahead of them and opened the library doors when they arrived there.
“Lord and Lady Elrick and Mrs. Derrick, your grace,” he said.
It was an enormous apartment, Christine saw, smelling of leather and wood and candles. There must be thousands of books here, she estimated. They filled bookshelves from the floor to the high ceiling. There was a huge desk close to the windows and a circle of large chairs about the fireplace, in which a fire burned.
The Duke of Bewcastle stood before the fire, his back to it, looking cold and forbidding in his black and white evening clothes. He was not alone. Justin was rising to his feet from one of the leather chairs beside the fireplace, looking surprised. But then he smiled.