“No one will disturb us here. Father described your conversation. I cannot believe that he discussed such a delicate issue with anyone unrelated, let alone a female.”
“He claims I have uncommon sense. We’ve spoken on several occasions, so he realizes that he can trust me – though the reason for that has escaped his notice, thank heaven. Since I have none of Emily’s memories, I doubt she will retain any of mine.”
“Do you really believe that Frederick is untainted by madness?”
She nodded. “By my time, scientists have learned much about inheritance. Certain disorders are passed to the offspring through the male and female seed. A small number of these are gender specific. Since the afflicted members of Fay’s family are all female, and since no child of a male suffers, we can safely assume that such is the case here. Which means Frederick is no more likely to harbor madness than you or I.”
“You are sure?” His eyes begged for a guarantee.
“I can’t swear that he will never do anything you would describe as mad, Drew. Events can drive people to extremes regardless of heredity. Given the right circumstances, you are capable of suicide,” she reminded him. “I consider that mad. But Frederick is strong, rational, and willing to face trouble head-on. That makes him an unlikely candidate.”
“You relieve my mind. And I now have adequate cause to terminate this ill-conceived betrothal.”
“You can’t cite madness, Drew!”
“Why?”
“For God’s sake! Must I explain your own era to you? Everyone knows Frederick is Fay’s cousin. If you dump her because of family madness, he will be branded as well. Anne is the one who would suffer. No matter how willing you are to believe, most people would not accept your word that Frederick is untainted. It would take twentieth-century genetics to prove it.”
“Gen-etics?” he asked, stumbling over the word.
“Damn,” she muttered. “I wasn’t going to get technical. Traits are passed from parent to child via tiny bits of matter called genes. We all have thousands of them. One gives you chocolate-brown eyes. Another makes your hair curl—”
Bad examples
, she realized as heat pooled in her womb. Wrenching her eyes from his face, she forced a businesslike tone into her voice. “The study of genes is called genetics. Abnormalities in genes cause many diseases in humans, some with symptoms that your era collectively refers to as madness.”
“It is a disease then?”
“Some madness arises from genetic mistakes that affect behavior. Other forms come from emotional problems or stress that the person cannot deal with – like your suicide. Both kinds can be treated in my time so victims live normal lives.”
“So madness is not a pestilence caused by the devil,” he murmured.
“Not at all. I have not studied the subject in depth, but there are two types of genetic mental illness that I do know of. One is porphyria, which is the disease afflicting George III. I saw a movie about it a few years ago. Unfortunately, the remedies that his physicians prescribed actually made him worse, until he is now beyond help of even my own time’s doctors. Another disease is called schizophrenia, in which a person hears voices that urge him to criminal or destructive behavior. It can be controlled with medication.”
“Amazing,” he breathed. “But I thought you could not discuss future events.”
“I don’t know the rules of time travel,” she said on a sigh. “Some things I cannot talk about. Others are not a problem. Perhaps psychiatric advances are so far in the future that mentioning them now will mean nothing. After all, the science of psychiatry itself was not developed until the 1860s. But let’s stick to the subject. Citing madness to jilt Fay will only get you off the hook by hurting Anne. Have you discovered anything else?”
“Not about Fay. But Father related a tragic tale that explains how I came to be in this fix.” He restlessly paced the room.
She raised her brows but said nothing as she settled into a chair. Though her curiosity was high, she could not force him to betray family secrets unless he wanted to. But he seemed to be in the mood to do so. Perhaps knowing that she would soon be gone, leaving no memories behind to trouble Emily, made speaking easier.
“Father claims he was not a sober, dutiful, and very proper figure when he was a young man. In fact, to hear him describe it this afternoon, he must have been wilder even than Lord Devereaux.”
“Who is one of your more incorrigible rakehells, as I recall.” She nearly laughed at his expression. “Don’t forget that I’ve studied this period. His foibles have not mellowed through two centuries of retelling, believe me. Nor have Brummell’s or Prinny’s or anyone else’s.” She almost included Byron, recalling just in time that his most appalling behavior lay in the future. In 1812, he was newly published and idolized by society.
“Of course. Anyway, Father and his friends enjoyed life to the fullest – gaming, drinking heavily . . .” He hesitated.
“Wenching? I would expect no less. Don’t try to spare my delicate sensibilities, Drew. Where I come from, women don’t have any.”
“A pity. He and his particular friends were a wild bunch. They might easily have joined the Hellfire Club if that group had not already been disbanded.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with it,” she answered his unspoken question. “Quit stalling. What did he do thirty years ago that would bind you to Fay?”
“He and Lord Raeburn were very close, having grown up together. They often wagered with each other – betting on people’s behavior, the gender of the unborn bastards sired by various royal dukes, their own sexual prowess . . .”
He paused, turning to the window to hide his face. She shook her head. Men hadn’t changed much in two hundred years. They still bragged about their conquests – and often exaggerated them.
Drew sighed. “One night after a profitable session at a gaming hell, Father and Lord Raeburn fell into a debate about whether they had consumed enough wine to incapacitate them sexually. They finally wagered on which of them could better pleasure a young lady – obviously they would have to choose the same young lady so she could compare their performances. The chosen judge was an opera dancer fresh up from the country.”
Horror filled his voice, despite his efforts to remain calm. “Unfortunately, they had consumed the wrong amount of wine. There is a stage of drunkenness when frustration converts to anger. When neither could perform as expected, they lashed out at the girl. With a prize of a thousand guineas riding on the outcome, both went a little mad. By the time sanity returned, she was dead.”
“No wonder he became so rigidly proper. Guilt must have driven all enjoyment from his life.”
“True. But it was worse than that. Father had consumed more wine than Lord Raeburn and could think of nothing beyond escape. Raeburn was the one who took care of hiding the deed. Father knows no details, and Raeburn has never mentioned it, but the knowledge was always there, hanging in the air between them whenever a question of cooperation arose. Father felt more vulnerable because the marquessate gave him farther to fall if the truth ever came out.” He sucked in a shuddering breath. “And because it was he who struck the fatal blow. So he often agreed to proposals he might otherwise have scorned – like matching me and Fay in marriage.”
“Poor man,” Cherlynn said. “He told me he kept Randolph close to prevent him from becoming too wild. Now I see what he meant. He must have recognized his own failings in Randolph. And if he hadn’t harped on duty and honor every minute of your life, you might have been less inclined to buckle under Fay’s coercion.”
“Can you see any way I can use this against Fay?”
“Not without blackening his reputation,” she said, shaking her head. “If Lord Raeburn were healthy, perhaps he could do something, but he is not.”
“Devil take it!” he muttered. “This is too frustrating. She’s blackmailing me, but I can’t reveal the blackmail without exposing her lies, which half the
ton
will accept as truth, including my father. She harbors seeds of madness, but I can’t use that without hurting my sister. And I can’t jilt her without destroying my own credit, which will hurt Emily.”
She nodded. “Don’t give up hope, Drew. I think our best course is to find out whom she’s sleeping with at the moment.”
He stared.
“Surely you didn’t think she was innocent.”
“I never really thought about it,” he admitted, running his fingers through his hair. “But now that you mention it, she does have a very knowing look in her eye. How did you recognize it?”
“I’m not Emily. Remember? Besides, I know about one of her affairs. Unfortunately, it’s not one we can use.”
“Oh, God. Randolph?”
She nodded.
“I should have expected that. He has always envied me everything.”
“I suspect his feelings went far beyond envy. Hating you would explain the way he looted your inheritance.”
“Where did you hear about him and Fay?” he asked, resignation and pain threading his voice.
“From a witness, but it does no good.”
“Why? After Father’s confession, I doubt it would shock him. And hearing about it would set the stage for me to jilt Fay.”
She sighed. “Not this time, Drew. The only witness is Anne. You can’t put her through the agony of describing what she saw.”
“No.” His eyes squeezed shut as he shuddered. “The attention would destroy her. But perhaps my groom can learn something. Surely someone on the estate knows of their affair. Or about some other liaison.”
“Let’s hope.”
“So when should I schedule Anne’s wedding?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
She stared into the fire, unable to move or respond. He was fishing for his father’s death date. But he wouldn’t get it. She no longer worried about doing irreversible damage to the fabric of time. Her own acting might be abominable, but there was indeed a power in charge that would prevent her from revealing anything that mattered. Besides, considering all Broadbanks’s recent shocks, she could no longer count on him living until the wedding.
“At least I can rest easier knowing I tried,” he said with a shrug. “Let’s find something you
can
talk about. What do you miss most about your own time?”
“Surprisingly little. Reeboks, I suppose. At one time I would have added jeans, but I’m getting used to wearing skirts.”
“And what are Reeboks?” he asked, taking the other chair.
“Truly comfortable shoes.” She laughed. “Why has no one yet noticed that left and right feet are shaped differently? But leave the future for now, Drew. I would rather talk of your time. I need more insight into how Regency gentlemen think and act. It is difficult to create believable characters unless I can crawl inside their heads. How do you and your friends view sex, for example?”
“You can’t possibly write about that!”
She was surprised to see a flush on his cheeks. “Surely you’re not embarrassed! Or maybe you are. In my day no topic is off limits. Women discuss sex quite freely, even with men. It is such a natural part of life that it should not be hidden and secretive. Many novels follow a loving couple into the bedchamber and share their pleasure. From both points of view.”
“Is nothing sacred? It sounds like men have lost most of their power,” he grumbled. “And all of their wits.”
“Not at all. Admitting that women are intelligent and capable does not demote men to a lesser role. Relationships are based on honesty, mutual affection, and respect, creating true partnerships where each strives to help the other. It does put pressure on the men, of course, for they can no longer use braggadocio and intimidation to mask incompetence. But then, women can no longer indulge in weakness and vapors to avoid dealing with problems.”
He nodded. “So you want to learn more about relationships between men and women in this era?” She could hear the effort that kept his voice steady. He had obviously never conducted so strange a conversation.
“We might as well start with the worst subject. Then all the others will be easier.” She grinned. “Tell me about young men going to London for the first time. How many girls are they likely to encounter? Where do they find them? And where do they conduct these meetings?”
“Good God! You don’t want much, do you?” His face was brick red.
“I’m sure you know enough braggarts to give me a general picture. If not, you’re welcome to describe your own experiences.” The interview was necessary research that only Drew could help with, and it would provide a unique glimpse she could get nowhere else, but she was having trouble remaining aloof. Even thinking about Drew’s sexual experiences filled her with both heat and fury.
After shifting uncomfortably for a minute, he abandoned his seat and wandered over to gaze out the window. Not being able to see Emily’s body must have helped, for he produced a clipped description of the typical young man’s first year on the town. Her fascination grew as he spoke of gaming hells and card sharps, brothels and opera dancers, men’s clubs and society gatherings. Very young men rarely set up mistresses, preferring to taste as many ladies as possible. Not until the constant variety began to pall and fears of contracting disease increased did they become more discriminating. The wealthy often established a permanent mistress. Others limited their encounters to the most reputable houses. Still others preferred to dally with society wives.
She wanted to ask him to which category he belonged, but that was one piece of information she didn’t think she could handle. So she turned the conversation to society gatherings and the best places to shop in London, carefully committing his words to memory since she would take nothing home but her mind.
As the evening lengthened, conversation grew easier, in part because they had moved away from the intensely personal. They again compared their worlds, her fascination with the past echoed by his curiosity over the future. But his enthusiasm was rapidly eroding her common sense. The more relaxed she became, the harder it was to suppress desire. She wanted to explore his body as well as his mind. When her choices had been reduced to fleeing or tearing his clothes off, she terminated the discussion. But leaving was the hardest thing she had ever done. Only the need to protect Emily’s virginity made it possible.