“But such good ton, Aunt Honoria,” Jason mur
mured.
Naturally interested in her future niece, she then
fixed Caroline with a gimlet eye, examining her from head to foot before barking, “So this is the chit. You
look a milk-and-water miss to me. Do you have
enough bottom to deal with a Kincaid, girl?”
Caroline flinched but her eye didn’t drop under the
examination. “I shall certainly try my best, Lady Edge
ware.”
“Trying isn’t good enough. If you haven’t produced
an heir within a twelvemonth, you’ll have me to an
swer to.”
Impressed that his betrothed had not collapsed
under a stare capable of rendering strong men craven,
Jason intervened to drawl. “Surely I would also bear
some responsibility for that.”
“Nonsense. The Kincaids have always been a lusty
lot, unless the blood has run thin in you.” She glared at
her nephew as if daring him to proclaim his virility,
but wisely changed her target before he actually could.
Turning to Jessica, she narrowed her eyes in concen
tration before saying triumphantly, “The Incompara
ble Miss Westerly, spring of ‘03. Married a red-coated
rattle and disappeared. What are you doing here?”
Fearing Jessica might react badly to such bald de
scription of her much-mourned husband, Caroline
hastily said, “Lady Edgeware, may I present my aunt,
Mrs. Sterling?”
Her ladyship waved her hand impatiently at Caro
line. “No need. I remember her clearly from her come-out. Are you still a hoyden, girl?”
Jessica lifted her chin and said coolly, “Yes. And I see
you are still rude.”
Lady Edgeware surprised the group with a cackle of
laughter. “Of course I am. Not many other pleasures
left at my age. Glad to see the spirit hasn’t been
crushed out of you. Your behavior was quite improper
for a gel of seventeen years—much like mine at the same age. If you live as long as I, you’ll end up much
like me, terrorizing your descendants for sport.”
A faint smile playing over her lips, Jessica replied, “Perhaps. But I hope I will be able to find other amuse
ments.”
While the rest of the party watched in fascination, Lady Edgeware led Jessica into a corner and started a
cheerfully malicious monologue that lasted through
the ensuing meal and obviated the need for anyone
else to converse.
When the ladies withdrew after dinner, she spent
some time grilling Caroline about her family and
health, approving of her Westerly connections (“a
much better stable than the Hanscombes”) but clicking
her tongue over the news that her mother had died
after producing a mere daughter.
At that, Caroline had opened her eyes wide and pointed out that a similar performance on her part
would clear the way for a second wife to attempt an
heir. Lady Edgeware gave her a sharp glance, unsure
whether the girl was serious or was poking fun at the
inquisition. Met by Caroline’s look of blameless inno
cence, she transferred her attention back to Jessica. By
the time the tea tray arrived, her ball had been set for
the night of the full moon on Friday week, and Jessica
had been conscripted as chief assistant for planning
and logistics.
The party broke up early that evening, Lady Edge-
ware having tired and no one else showing
much interest in general conversation. When they
reached their bedchambers, Caroline invited her aunt
in with the promise of good news.
Jessica followed willingly. It was time something good hap
pened, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear that her niece had formed a lasting passion for Lord Rad
ford.
Instead, Caroline perched on the bed and shyly
handed her the letter from the music publishers. Her
aunt read it twice, then leaned over and gave her a
hug. “Caro, this is wonderful! I assume that Richard
Dalton sent your compositions to Winford?”
Caroline nodded. “Yes, I’m glad he didn’t ask me
first. I would never have had the confidence to submit
anything. But it makes me very happy to know a
stranger truly likes my work.”
Jessica joined her niece on the bed, her eyes dancing
as she said, “Did you think Signore Ferrante and I
would endanger our immortal souls by lying about
how good your music is?”
“I didn’t precisely think you were lying,” Caroline laughed. “But I did assume some bias.” She frowned
slightly in concentration, then said, “I knew my com
positions were good for an amateur. The surprise is
that they can be considered good on the level of seri
ous musicians.”
“But you have always been serious about music,
Caro,” her aunt objected.
“To be serious does not automatically make one
good,” her niece said rather dryly. She lay back on the
bed, her voice taking on a dreamy note. Jessica could
not see her face as she continued, “So much has hap
pened lately, Jess. I am a whole different person than I
was three months ago.”
Her aunt kept a light tone as she asked, “A better or
worse person?”
“Better, I think,” Caroline answered seriously.
“More understanding, wiser I hope, and much, much
older.”
Jessica gave a throaty chuckle and said, “Oh, to be twenty-one again and to know I was grown up!”
Caroline giggled. “I do sound rather pompous,
don’t I? But surely, the fact that I didn’t bolt out of the
room under Lady Edgeware’s interrogation is a sign of
mature strength.”
“By that standard, I must be a century-old Her
cules.”
Caroline sat up and looked appropriately apolo
getic. “You were so brave. You have my sincerest sym
pathy on having taken her dragonship’s fancy.”
“Oh, she’s not so bad now that I know she doesn’t
despise me. Though it is a lowering thought to reflect that she may be right about my ending up like her.”
“Never,” Caroline said firmly. “You are forceful as
needed, but you have a kind heart. I misdoubt Lady
Edgeware does.”
“You must accustom yourself to thinking of her as
Aunt Honoria,” Jessica said maliciously.
“Heaven forfend!” Caroline gave a ladylike shriek and rolled over on the bed, grabbing a pillow to bury
her head under.
Jessica reached over to peel off the pillow. “One must take the bad with the good. As Lady Radford,
you will be gaining much more than you lose.”
Caroline looked suddenly sad, her playfulness gone
as quickly as it had come. “I will strive to remember
that.”
* * * *
Richard returned from London late Sunday night after a hard ride. His leg aching from the strain, he
took a glass of brandy and retired to a long dreamless sleep. He felt unreasonably refreshed the next morning, and wondered if his well-being stemmed from a
sense of coming home. He firmly repressed the
thought; he wasn’t quite ready to make that decision.
Besides finalizing the contract with Caroline’s pub
lisher, he had taken time in London to discuss his legal
options with Chelmsford. He was leaning toward
making a private settlement with the Wargrave estate
that would give him one of the smaller unentailed
properties with enough cash to make it viable, and
leaving the title and the rest of the estate to Reginald
Davenport. He doubted his cousin would object, since
the alternative would leave Reggie without a feather
to fly with.
Richard had been bemused to learn that his cousin’s
sole income was an allowance from the estate that had
been paid even though he and the old earl had been at
outs for years. That knowledge had contributed to
Richard’s feeling that he himself was not cut out to be an English aristocrat; they didn’t seem to act like normal people.
After breakfasting, he rode over to the village
church to set a plan in motion. His eyes took several
moments to adjust to the dim light as he walked down
the aisle in search of Reverend Chandler. It was the
sound of stifled sobs that drew his attention to the fig
ure kneeling in the small Lady chapel to his left. He
hesitated, uncertain whether to pass in silence or offer
what comfort he could. Reluctant to walk away, he
stepped into the chapel.
Lady Helen Chandler raised her head from the rail
ing and turned to him, tears running down the proud
hawk face. Richard handed her his linen handkerchief,
reflecting that he had seen more than his share of dis
traught ladies recently. She pressed it against her eyes
for a few moments, then said in a steady voice, “My daughter would have been fifty years old today.”
“Would have been, Lady Helen?” Richard ques
tioned gently. If she wished to release some old sor
row, it would not be the first such tale he had heard.
The old woman nodded. “I am sure she is dead
these last three years. But I had not seen her for thirty.”
Richard felt a faint prickly uneasiness at the base of his skull, but his voice was still calm as he asked, “Had she married and moved to a foreign country?”
She said in a distant voice, “In effect. But the tragedy is that she was forced from her home. I hold much of
the blame for her leaving. For many years I had hoped
I would see her again, to beg her forgiveness. I felt in
my heart she was well, and I think happy. Then three
years ago my sense of her ended, and I knew she
would never come home again.”
Richard said nothing, torn by the shadow of old
tragedy that combined with his own growing specula
tion. But Lady Helen needed no encouragement: she
had a compulsion to talk, the story pouring out of her
in a spate of words.
“My daughter was nineteen, and a lovely young
girl. A crony of my first husband’s wished to marry her. We both approved, but Mary wanted nothing to do with him. She was in love with a young man she
had grown up with. A rather wild young man, I
thought.”
Lady Helen grimaced. “It is one of the ironies of the
story that I preferred Lord Barford for her because I
myself had married a childhood sweetheart and could not say it was a success. Were it not for my son and
daughter, I would have left Rankin and be damned to
the scandal.”
She drew a deep breath and continued, “Mary wept
and pleaded with me, but I was convinced she would
be best off married to a solid, mature man who could
take care of her. The boy she wanted, Julius, was
scarcely a year older than she, a younger son with no prospects. So I in my pride, my wisdom, coerced my
daughter into a betrothal with a man she loathed. As it
turned out, her instincts were far sounder than my
‘wisdom.’ Had I known of Lord Barford what I learned
later, I would not have let him in the same room with Mary, much less used my authority to force a mar
riage. But it is one of those conspiracies men have,
keeping information from women. Barford was cor
rupt and vicious, attracted by Mary’s sweetness be
cause he desired to destroy it. He had been married
long before. His wife hanged herself.”
Richard was cold with a chill deeper than the sun
less stones of the church. Here at last was the full story
of why his parents had left England, and he hoped he
was strong enough to bear it. “It sounds as if you acted
from the best motives.”
Lady Helen made a sharp, angry gesture with her
hand. “Intentions are not good enough. I tried to guide
my daughter’s life, and it caused a tragedy. One I will
never atone for.”
“Would your husband have forced the marriage even without your cooperation?”
She lifted her head with the ghost of old pride. “No.
I am the daughter of an earl. I had influence, some for
tune of my own. He could not have prevailed against me and my family’s consequence.
“My son, Robert, supported his sister. He was much
of an age with Julius, and they were close friends. But I
no more listened to him than to Mary. Instead ...” she
paused, then said doggedly, “I warned my husband that I feared she might elope. She was too docile. I
couldn’t believe she had given up so easily.
“We were staying in our London town house a fortnight before the wedding. My fine husband was drink
ing late one night with Barford. I am not sure of the
details, but apparently he said Mary might run away
before the ceremony. Barford suggested that he should
make her his that very night. After all, they were be
trothed, as good as married. It was no great crime to
anticipate the ceremony, and it would prevent the girl from ruining herself by an elopement. Besides, what
other man would want her after he had taken her?”