Trapped by Scandal (27 page)

Hero was silent throughout the short carriage ride and offered only a distracted smile in her bedchamber as Maisie helped her out of the red silk gown. She sat at the dresser mirror to remove the emeralds, laying the set carefully back in the jewel casket, while Maisie unpinned her hair and brushed it in long, careful sweeps so that the honey-caramel strands fell in a rich curtain over her shoulders.

“Are you quite well, m'lady?” Maisie asked a little hesitantly as she dropped the folds of her white cambric nightgown over her head. “You don't seem quite yourself tonight.”

“I'm a little tired. Too much dancing, I expect,” Hero responded with another faint smile as she buttoned the tiny pearl studs at the front of the gown. “Would you bring me up a cup of hot spiced wine? I shall sit up by the fire for a little.”

Maisie went off immediately, and Hero sat down in the
armchair by the fire, her gaze fixed upon the bright flames although she was not really seeing them. She rested one bare foot on the copper fender, curling her toes against the fire's warmth as her thoughts slowly solidified, purpose now dominating the hurt bewilderment.

“Oh, thank you, Maisie.” She nodded at the maid, who set the steaming, aromatic pewter tankard on a little table beside her with a plate of shortbread biscuits. “I shan't need you again tonight. And I may decide to go for a ride early tomorrow. I won't ring for you until I return, probably by midday.”

Maisie bobbed a curtsy of acquiescence, although her expression said very clearly what she thought of Lady Hero's sudden habit of disappearing from the house before the household was up and about. “Whatever you say, ma'am. I'll bid you good night, then.”

“Good night, Maisie.” Hero took up the tankard and inhaled the rich, spicy aroma of nutmeg and cloves. It soothed and warmed her. She nibbled a biscuit and reexamined the questions she had been mulling since she'd left Brook Street.

Was she prepared to fight for William any longer? Had he finally caused too much damage for there ever to be anything more between them again? In the end, it came down to how much pain one person could cause another and still be forgiven. She understood so much about him but not enough, because he withheld his trust. She had tried so hard to understand and respect his passionate undertakings for the causes he believed in, but the part
of himself that he withheld from her was beyond her understanding.

He had a child. The child's mother was dead. She had not been his wife. Those were straightforward, stark facts, and Hero had no difficulty understanding any of them. But why wouldn't he tell her anything about his past beyond those bare facts? There was so much more, she knew, and she was also certain that it was that “much more” that held him back from her.

Was she prepared to risk rejection once more? She sipped the spiced wine, savoring the taste and fragrance in the tankard. It couldn't be any worse than any other time he had pushed her away.

She rose from her chair and went to the long window overlooking the street and the square, moving the heavy damask curtain aside just enough to see out. Was there a watcher out there, his eyes fixed upon the house?

She let the curtain drop again, reflecting that all things considered, there probably was. The Lizard was by no means done with her. Not after her careless revelation at Almack's. He had almost certainly increased surveillance. The question was whether he was watching the rear of the house as well as the front.

She would know soon enough once she ventured forth, Hero decided, returning to her chair. If anyone had the answers she sought, it would be the woman Jeanne, Marguerite's aunt. Maybe she wasn't the child's aunt and it was just a convenient familiarity, but it had been clear from her observations that morning that she and William were close. If she was looking after William's child, then it stood
to reason she knew the child's history. Whether she would talk to Hero was another matter altogether, but it was her last chance to salvage anything from this relationship.

Her mind made up, Hero finished the contents of her tankard and went to bed, surprised at how quickly she fell asleep.

TWENTY-SIX

H
ero awoke with the first chirps of the dawn chorus. She felt surprisingly refreshed after a few hours of sleep, and her resolution had not wavered. She would try one last time to penetrate the thicket of thorns William had erected around his deepest feelings, his past, all that made him who he was. If she failed, then nothing could be worse than the present.

She left the curtains drawn tightly at the window for the sake of any watcher in the street and dressed by the light of a single candle. If the Lizard kept a watcher on her twenty-four hours a day, she didn't want him to know that she was awake betimes. She fastened the braided looped buttons on her high-collared riding jacket and pulled on her boots, took up her gauntleted gloves, and softly let herself out of her chamber into the dimly lit hallway.

She took the back stairs down to the kitchen regions. The servants' hall was deserted, the vast kitchen equally so, although the banked-up fire in the big kitchen range offered a dull glow. Before unbolting the back door, she took an apple from a barrel in the pantry, then slipped out into the distinctly cold air of early morning. The evening
star still shone in the gradually lightening sky, and she shivered as a gust of wind blew the dry autumn leaves from the twin giant oaks against the far wall of the garden. As small children, she and Alec had claimed the trees for themselves, christening them with their own names. They had spent many hours together, each crouched in a tree, listening to the sounds of exasperated nursemaids and governesses searching for them. Often, when the pursuit died down, they would drop over the wall from the overhanging branches and into the mews behind, where they would hide in the hayloft with a pile of windfalls between them, vicariously enjoying the busy life of the stables below.

Hero crossed the lawn, her feet leaving imprints in the thick dew, and let herself out through the small gate in the wall at the rear of the garden, which opened directly into the mews. Apart from the snufflings and rustlings of the horses, there was no sign of life.

Hero took Petra out of her stall, and the mare sniffed the cold morning with a rather dubious air. But she took the apple eagerly enough and stood patiently as Hero threw the saddle over her back and tightened the girth, adjusting the stirrup lengths before slipping the bridle over the mare's head and leading her to the mounting block.

“It's a strange time to be out and about, I know,” Hero murmured, stroking the animal's velvety neck, pulling her ears lightly, before swinging into the saddle. “But it's easier to keep our business to ourselves at this hour.” She nudged Petra towards the cobbled lane that led into Adam's Row behind the mews and away from Grosvenor Square. There was no one around and nowhere to hide, at least as far
as she could see. And if anyone did follow her in these deserted streets, she would surely be aware of it.

The easiest route to Knightsbridge lay through the park. It was getting lighter now, and to be on the safe side, Hero took a few maneuvers designed to disclose pursuit if there was someone on her tail. But stopping occasionally, retracing her steps once or twice, and taking small detours from her route revealed no pursuer, and she entered the park from a small gate at South Street, as confident as she could be that she was unobserved. She took the carriage drive around, hoping she wouldn't meet any early-­morning ­riders who might recognize her. But her luck held, and within half an hour, she found herself in Knightsbridge.

There were more people around now, laden drays and farmers' carts taking their goods to the markets in town, a few servants hurrying to start their day in the merchants' houses, day laborers hauling coal and wood for the gentry's fireplaces and cooking ranges. No one seemed to take any notice of her as she rode around the village green and turned onto Primrose Lane. She drew up outside the last cottage on the lane, dismounted, opened the gate, and led Petra up the path to the front door. Hoping she wouldn't be waking the inhabitants from a sound sleep, she knocked once and almost immediately heard the sound of the bolt being drawn back. The door was pulled open with some effort, and Marguerite stood there in her nightgown, looking up at Hero.

The child called excitedly, “Tante Jeanne, the lady who makes daisy chains is here, and she's brought a horse. Can I ride him? Please, I want to ride him. Uncle Guillaume
lets me ride his horse.” She pranced on her tiptoes as the words poured forth.

Jeanne emerged from a door at the rear of the small hall. She looked at Hero, her eyes a little narrowed, her gaze speculative but not hostile. Then she said, “I'm glad you came. It would be wise to take your horse around the side to the kitchen garden. It will be less conspicuous there.”

“Of course, at once.” Comforted by her welcome, Hero stepped back from the door, and it closed instantly on Marguerite's voice rising in complaint. She tethered Petra to the fence enclosing a small kitchen garden, loosened the girth and knotted the reins, then made her way to the kitchen door, which now stood open, Jeanne standing within, a plaid shawl wrapped tightly around her nightgown.

“Come in, please.” She held the door wider in invitation. “Marguerite and I were about to have breakfast. I hope you'll join us.”

“Thank you.” Hero felt as if this was all taking place in a dream; it felt so unreal. She took off her gloves as she stepped into the warm, homey kitchen.

“Marguerite, would you let the hens out of the henhouse and fetch the eggs, please?” Jeanne handed the child a basket.

“Can I give the horse some apples, too, and a carrot? Please, may I?”

Jeanne glanced at Hero, who said swiftly, “Petra would love just one apple and one carrot, Marguerite. Thank you so much.”

Beaming, Marguerite danced off with her basket to pull a carrot from the vegetable patch and pick a windfall from beneath the apple tree. Hero watched from the small
latticed window for a moment. Petra was not particularly skittish, but if the child approached her too suddenly, she might be unpredictable.

“It's all right. Marguerite knows how to be around horses. William taught her sometime ago.” Jeanne set a mug on the table. “Coffee?”

“Thank you.” Hero sat at the table, cupping her cold hands around the mug. “I'm sorry to burst in upon you like this,” she began.

Jeanne interrupted her. “No, don't apologize. I'm glad you did,” she repeated, and a rather sad smile touched her lips. “William is not very good at helping himself, as I expect you've noticed, so it's incumbent on those who care for him to do it for him.”

Hero was silent for a moment. “I don't know whether I'm betraying him by coming here, but I think it's our last chance . . . his and mine.”

“Petra ate the carrot
and
the apple, although it might have been a bit maggoty,” Marguerite announced from the door, letting in a blast of chill air. “And there are six eggs.” She set down her basket and sat to haul off her boots. “Petra is a girl's name, isn't it?”

“Yes, Petra is a mare.” Hero sipped her coffee, wondering how she and Jeanne were to have a conversation in the child's company.

But she needn't have worried. Jeanne said, “Go and get dressed,
petite
, and then you can take some bread and jam outside and talk to Petra some more while I prepare the eggs.” Marguerite went off with her usual dancing step, and Jeanne said, “I don't even know your name.”

“Hermione Fanshawe, but I'm always called Hero. I met William in Paris. Forgive me, but are you related to William . . . his sister? I know Marguerite is his daughter; it's impossible to miss.”

“The eyes, yes,” Jeanne agreed. “I am her aunt. Her mother was my sister. She and William fell deeply in love about six years ago. Her parents felt she was too young for marriage, although I think they hoped she would find someone at the court of Versailles of more august lineage than a mere viscount, although the St. Aubery name is venerable enough and there's wealth enough. But my family, my father in particular, always had an inflated sense of family pride. He didn't forbid the marriage outright but insisted that they wait for twelve months.”

She gazed over Hero's head through the window to the gray morning sky. “Isabelle, my sister, was never one to wait for something she wanted. She didn't care much for the rules and societal regulations imposed upon our class.”

Hero was beginning to see a glimmer of light. “William seems to care overmuch for such things,” she commented.

“Now, perhaps. Not so much then.” Jeanne got up to fetch the coffeepot from the range. She refilled their mugs. “They were not alone at court in violating the rules,” she added. She shook her head. “It was a passion I had never seen between two people. It seemed to swallow them whole. They saw no one but each other . . . I'm sorry, I don't mean to imply that you and—”

Hero waved her hands in dismissal. “No, please, I understand. You see, it was like that for William and myself for a while, and then he ripped us apart. It was so savage,
so brutal, and I had no explanation, and he still will not give me one, but I know in my heart, my
self
, that it is the same for him as it is for me. I can't let him go without one more fight for us both.”

Jeanne leaned her elbows on the table, her hands cupped around her mug, and her eyes met Hero's with a straightforward gaze. “Isabelle became pregnant. Such matters are often dealt with by a strategic illness and an absence from court for the necessary time, and the child is fostered at birth. Our family was prepared to protect the family honor in such manner, although my father insisted that Isabelle was so disgraced she would have to take the veil as soon as the child was born. Until then, she would be held in seclusion in the country.”

“William . . .” Hero prompted into the sudden silence.

Jeanne made a visible effort to concentrate on her story. “William was in Italy. His father had been France's ambassador to Rome, and he hoped that William would follow in his footsteps. He had arranged for him to spend a summer at the embassy and tour the country. William was reluctant, but his father was no tyrant, and he and his son were close. Isabelle did not know she was pregnant at that time, and they both agreed that while it would be hard for them to part, it might make the year go more quickly. Also, their risk taking had become increasingly reckless, and they both knew it.”

Hero winced a little as the glimmer of light grew brighter. She waited, unwilling to prompt Jeanne. However, the reappearance of William's daughter put a temporary stop to the story, and Jeanne rose to fry eggs and bacon, chatting incon
sequentially the while. Hero did her part, telling her hostess and Marguerite about her own family, her brother and the new baby. She touched briefly on Marie Claire's experiences in Paris without sharing her own part in them. That would come later, when there were no little ears to hear.

Hero was hungry for the first time in a long time, it seemed, and she finished her plate with relish. As soon as the child had disappeared again to talk to Petra and give her more apples, Jeanne resumed her history.

“So, with William away, poor Isabelle had little choice but to obey our father's edict and remain immured on our country estate, kept away from neighbors, not even permitted to attend church. It was said she was dangerously ill with smallpox, and that was sufficient to keep the local families well away.” Jeanne's mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust. “I was permitted to leave the convent that I had just joined as a novice and allowed to stay with her, to look after her until the birth. Since my life was already dedicated to the church, it seemed reasonable to the world in general that it shouldn't matter if I caught the disease and was pockmarked for life. I was not destined for the marriage bed.”

Hero could almost hear William's dry cynicism in his sister-in-law's tones—sister-in-law in all but name.

“Isabelle and I concocted a plan that I would take the baby and tell everyone the child had died at birth.” She shrugged. “It was an old and tried story, after all. As long as we could keep meddling midwives out of the birth chamber, it would work. Throughout the nine months, Isabelle heard nothing from William. She wrote to him constantly, told him of the pregnancy and the plan she and I had
made for the baby and for herself. As soon as she was ready to leave her bed, I would get her away from the house, and together we would leave France with the baby. She asked William over and over where she should go and when he would arrive. They would marry without her father's blessing and make a life for themselves and their child.”

Hero was staring steadily at Jeanne as she talked, an almost pitiless stare as she absorbed every word.

“But she never heard anything from William.” Jeanne spoke with finality. “Not a single letter, not a message, nothing in the entire nine months. I myself ensured her letters went to the embassy in Rome without our father's knowing anything of it, but there was never a reply. Isabelle was in despair. She couldn't understand why he wouldn't even acknowledge the pregnancy, the fact that she carried his child. It was a difficult pregnancy, as much because of her dreadful anxiety as anything, I think. Our parents said her suffering was well-deserved punishment for her sins,” she added with a caustic smile. “Their religious fervor was acclaimed throughout the region.”