A Secret Affair

Chapter 20

THE REVEREND NEWCOMBE had come all the way to London, and the most entertaining thing he could find to do on his first full day there was visit a bookshop on Oxford Street that he remembered from his student days.

He had come to Dunbarton House to invite Barbara and Hannah to accompany him. And Barbara was glowing with enthusiasm at the prospect.

Hannah gazed from one to the other of them as they all sat in the drawing room drinking coffee. It really was quite extraordinary. It was not even a shop for new books. It was probably filled with dust. It was undoubtedly filled too with old tomes so dry that they were crumbling away to create more dust.

“You must come with us, Hannah,” Barbara pleaded. “You have scarcely been over the doorstep for several days, and the sun is shining again today. You must not fear that you will be in the way.” She blushed.

“I fear no such thing,” Hannah said. “You are both too polite to admit even to yourselves that my presence would be de trop. I shall go walking in Hyde Park this afternoon and receive my court and learn all the newest gossip with which to regale you both at dinner. You will dine here, Mr. Newcombe?”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head. “I—”

He was interrupted by a tap on the drawing room door.

“The Earl and Countess of Merton wish to know if you are at home, Your Grace,” the butler said when he had opened it.

Hannah shot to her feet. Cassandra? And the earl too?

“Show them up,” she said.

It was as much as she could do not to run after him and overtake him on the stairs so that she could arrive in the hall ahead of him and discover what had happened.

“The Earl of Merton,” Barbara was explaining to her vicar, “went to Ainsley Park with the Duke of Moreland to see what they could do to intercede for the condemned man.”

“Yes,” the Reverend Newcombe said, “I remember the names from your letter, Barb. And now the earl has returned, perhaps with news. Let us hope it is good news. Your concern for a poor misguided man, Your Grace, does you great credit. But it does not surprise me. Barbara has told me—”

Hannah stopped listening. Not because she was being deliberately impolite, but because her thoughts were whirling out of control. She stepped as close to the door as she could and not be bowled over by it when it opened again. She clasped her hands at her waist. She tried to gather her dignity about her.

The Duke of Moreland had not come with the earl? Constantine had not?

There was a tap on the door and it opened again. “The Earl and Countess of Merton, Your Grace,” the butler announced.

The earl looked travel worn. Although his clothes did not look unduly rumpled or his face unshaven, there were signs of weariness about his eyes, and it seemed to Hannah that he must have returned home to Merton House only long enough to see his wife. And Cassandra was—beaming.

“All is well,” she said and hurried forward to catch Hannah up in her arms. “All is well, Hannah.”

Hannah sagged with relief as she submitted to the hug.

“I daresay you knew as much, Your Grace,” the earl said. “It is you who must have persuaded the king to intervene. But I suppose you have been anxious anyway to hear that the pardon arrived in time. It did. With three days to spare, in fact.”

Only three days?

“It was a complete pardon,” he added. “Jess Barnes is free. I promised Con when I left that I would let you know within an hour of my return to London. And I took the liberty of traveling here in your carriage, Your Grace. Con will come with Elliott later.”

“With the Duke of Moreland?” Hannah raised her eyebrows. “The two of them together in one carriage?”

He grinned.

“And they will probably not even come to blows,” he said. “Or preserve a stony silence either.”

“They have settled that foolish quarrel?” Hannah asked.

“They have,” he said. “For the first time I have seen them together as they must have been most of their lives before I met them both. They talk incessantly and joke—and even argue. And lest you need more assurance, I will add that it was upon Elliott’s shoulder Con chose to weep when he read the king’s pardon even though mine was just as close and just as available.”

“Oh.” Hannah pressed her hands together and brought her mouth down to the tips of her fingers. She closed her eyes and pictured Constantine weeping. How embarrassed he must have been. And how furious he would be if he knew that his cousin was telling her about it.

Men could be very foolish about such things.

How strange that one could be so wrong about another person. She had always called him the devil to herself. He looked dark and dangerous enough to justify the name. He was quite the opposite. He was all light and love and compassion. Oh, and perhaps a little dark and dangerous too. He was a dizzying mix of human qualities, in fact—as most people were.

She positively ached with love for him, foolish woman that she was.

All of which was quite inappropriate to the moment anyway. She lifted her head, smiled, and turned to introduce her visitors to the Reverend Newcombe.

He and Barbara were both on their feet. Barbara’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears. She hurried forward to hug Hannah.

“I knew the king would not forget,” she said.

Would this now be the end, Hannah wondered. The earl had just said that Constantine would travel back to town with the Duke of Moreland. But would he change his mind and stay at Ainsley since the Season was already more than half over? Would he need to stay, as he had intended anyway, to help console poor Jess and soothe some ruffled feathers among his neighbors? Now that he was away from her, would he decide that this was a convenient time to end their affair?

She had told him she loved him. That might persuade him to keep his distance from her for the next year or two.

Or would he come back? Would he resume their affair as though there had been no interruption?

Would she?

She had not thought about it before now. And now was not an appropriate time. She had two sets of visitors to entertain, though Cassandra was in the process of explaining that they would not stay, that they must go and let Vanessa know what had happened and how soon she could expect the duke’s return home.

Would she continue living here by day, going to Constantine’s house by night so that they could make love?

She ached to make love. To be made love to.

She was his mistress.

He was her lover.

Was it enough?

It was what they had agreed upon. It was what she had wanted for this, her first year of freedom. Indeed, she was the one who had initiated the whole thing.

Had she changed her mind so soon?

She could not bear for them not to be lovers any longer.

She could not bear for them to be lovers either.

She really did love him. She had told him the truth about that—which may, of course, not have been a wise thing to do.

Why did loving him and being his lover seem like two mutually exclusive things?

Ah, she thought as she bade the earl and Cassandra a good day and thanked them for coming, she was no more calm and in control of her emotions now than she had been at the age of nineteen. The eleven intervening years might never have been.

Except that now she could see that she had a clear choice before her and that it was she alone who must make it. Calmly and rationally. Provided Constantine himself did not make it for her, that was, by staying at Ainsley.

Would they remain lovers for the rest of the Season?

Or would they not?

The choice could not be simpler.

Making it was another matter, of course.

“Will you come with us, Hannah?” Barbara asked when the three of them were alone with one another in the drawing room once more. “You no longer have to wait at home for news, do you? It has come, and it is the very best news possible.”

“Why not?” Hannah said, looking from one to the other of them. “Let us celebrate by going to look at some old books.”

The Reverend Newcombe beamed.

CONSTANTINE REMAINED at Ainsley Park for four days after Jess had been freed and Stephen had taken the duchess’s carriage and returned to London.

He felt the need to be with his people for a while as they all recovered from their terrible anxiety and settled back to their normal everyday life. He felt the need to call upon all his neighbors and talk openly with them about the situation at Ainsley. He could not promise them that awkward situations like this one would never arise again, but he could and did remind them that the incident with Jess was the first of its kind in all the years he had been here. And he explained that all his people appreciated the new chance in life they were being given here and were doing all in their power to become respectable and productive individuals again. He was not running a thieves’ den—or a brothel. Even Jess was not a thief by nature, but a man who had tried to put right a wrong without thinking through what he was doing. And Jess was leaving. He would not be at Ainsley ever again.

Most of his neighbors received him with courtesy. A few received him with warm kindness. A few others reserved their judgment. Kincaid was openly skeptical though not unduly hostile. Time would bring him around, Constantine believed and hoped.

He stayed at Ainsley for four days so that Jess could recover somewhat from his ordeal and accustom himself to the idea that his training at Ainsley Park was over and that he was to be promoted to a position he had always dreamed of, that of stable hand. The Duke of Moreland was offering him such a position at Rigby Abbey, his own country estate. It was going to be hard on them all to see him go, Constantine explained, but the duke was his cousin, and if he must let Jess move on to a better position, then he would rather it be with a relative than with a stranger. And he would be able to see Jess from time to time when he visited the duke. He would be able to bring him news of all his friends at Ainsley.

He had never been to Rigby Abbey himself.

One thing that surprised him was that Elliott chose to remain at Ainsley too, though it was obvious he hated being away from his wife and children. He stayed to renew their friendship. There could be no other reason. And renew it they did, tentatively at first, with growing ease as the days passed.

It felt like a gift, a balm to the soul, to have Elliott back. Constantine had not realized just how much he had missed him. Losing him and then losing Jon had all been mixed up together in one massively lonely emptiness.

Now he had Elliott back. And they talked about Jon. They shared memories of him—not the painful last ones, but those encompassing the previous fifteen years or so.

Constantine found those four days healing and relaxing, though a part of him fretted to be back in London. Even so, he tried to keep his mind off Hannah as much as he could. He was not ready yet to think.

She had told him she loved him.

By the time he returned to London in Elliott’s luxurious carriage, Jess up on the box with the coachman while the footman rode behind, Constantine had been gone from London for almost two weeks.

He had to go and call upon the duchess to thank her for her intervention on behalf of Jess—he could hardly call it interference, could he?—and for the use of her carriage.

He found himself strangely reluctant to go, though. What would happen now? A return to the status quo? She would be his mistress again? He would be her lover again?

He longed for her. It was almost three weeks since he had last had her.

They were having an affair. A sexual fling. A temporary one, until the Season’s end, for their mutual pleasure.

Good God, was that what they were having?

It sounded damnably … what was the word his mind sought? Cheap? Sordid? Unsatisfactory? Definitely that last. Probably those first two as well. But that was strange. His previous affairs had never seemed any of the three. He had enjoyed them for what they were worth, ended them when the time came, and put them behind him.

An affair with Hannah, of course, was not enough.

He loved her.

He had scarcely thought of her in the past week and a half. Not consciously anyway. And yet she had been there at every moment of every day. A part of him.

It was dashed alarming.

Or was it?

She had told him she loved him before he left Copeland. Did she mean it? In that way? Devil take it, but he had so little experience with love. With that kind of love anyway. But perhaps everyone did until love came and punched them between the eyes. What did her actions say? Did they bear out her words?

What had she done after he had left—in her carriage?

She had dragged Stephen back to London with her, bearded Elliott in his den, packed the two of them off to Gloucestershire, and then dashed off to rouse the king.

All for a mentally handicapped stranger?

Hardly, compassionate as she undoubtedly was.

Elliott, on the seat opposite him in the carriage, yawned.

“You were staring fixedly into space when I dozed off, Con,” he said, “and you are still doing it when I wake up again. Worried about Jess, are you? You did a fine job of convincing him he has graduated with honors from Ainsley and has been promoted to Rigby. And I can be kind enough to my employees when I forget to be the autocratic duke.”

Constantine looked at him.

“I am deeply in your debt,” he said. “For everything.”

Elliott grinned.

“Do you imagine for one moment,” he said, “that I am going to let you forget it?”

Constantine chuckled.

“No,” he said. “I know you from of old.”

“Are you going to marry her?” Elliott asked.

And there it was. The idea his mind had been skirting about for days.

He wanted to marry. He wanted to have children. He wanted all those things he had avoided for years. He wanted to settle down.

But—with the Duchess of Dunbarton?

With Hannah?

It was like thinking of two different persons. But she was one and the same. She was both the duchess as he had always known her and Hannah as she had revealed herself since they became lovers. She could not be summed up in one word or one sentence. Even in one paragraph. Even in one book or one library. She was a vibrant, complex individual, and he loved her.

“The idea had not crossed my mind,” he said.

“Liar!” Elliott was still grinning.

“What made you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you wanted to marry Vanessa?” Constantine asked.

“I didn’t,” Elliott said. “She proposed to me, and I was so shocked that I said yes before I knew what I was doing and was stuck with the decision forever after.”

“If you don’t want to tell me,” Constantine said, “you can just say so, you know.”

Elliott held up his right hand.

“Honest truth,” he said. “By the time I loved her more than life, I was already married to her and didn’t have to go through all the agony of deciding how and where and when and whether to make my offer.”

“She might laugh at me,” Constantine said.

“It is a distinct possibility,” Elliott conceded after thinking about it for a moment. “She is a formidable lady, is she not? Not to mention beautiful. She could probably have any unmarried man in the realm she chose to set her sights upon. She might laugh at your suit, Con. She might also weep. That would be more promising.”

“The Duchess of Dunbarton, Elliott,” Constantine said. “I would have to be mad.”

“Why?” Elliott said. “You have much to offer, Con, and you are considerably more eligible today than you were a week ago.” He grinned again.

Constantine shrugged.

“Vanessa swears,” Elliott said, “that there is passion beneath all that sparkling white ice, Con, and that when the duchess finds an object upon which to focus it, she will be as constant as the north star. Vanessa tends to know these things. I would not dream of arguing with her upon such matters. I would turn out to be wrong, and she would gallantly refrain from saying I told you so, and I would feel like an idiot.”

“Hmm,” Constantine said.

“For your edification,” Elliott added, “she says that you have become that object, Con. You had better come with me to Moreland House as soon as we get back to town, by the way, and make your peace with Vanessa before you go off to Dunbarton House.”

“Right,” Constantine said before setting his head back and pretending to sleep so that there would be no more such talk.

He dozed off while wondering if she would laugh or weep if he offered her marriage.

Or whether he would give her the opportunity to do either.