At Last Comes Love

12

THE sudden hush in the crowded library, followed by a renewed rush of conversation, informed Duncan that at least one of the three people he least wished to meet must be in this very room. He looked unhurriedly about him. And sure enough, there was Caroline seated on the padded window seat, Norman standing beside her.

Duncan inclined his head affably in their direction. Miss Huxtable was greeting Con, who was with a redheaded beauty. "Margaret? Sherry?" Con said with an unnecessary degree of heartiness. "Have you met Mrs. Hunter? Do come into the music room with us and add your voices to mine. I am attempting to persuade her to sing for the company. Miss Huxtable and the Earl of Sheringford, Ingrid." "I remember you as having a lovely contralto voice, Mrs. Hunter," Miss Huxtable said. "I do hope you /will/ agree to sing. However, Lord Sheringford and I have just come from half an hour spent in the music room. We are on our way to find refreshments." Mrs. Hunter was looking at Duncan with pursed lips and eyes that were somewhat amused. "I remember you from long ago, Lord Sheringford," she said. "All the young girls making their debuts with me – including myself, I must confess – were ready to swoon at a single glance from you. Alas, you did not know we existed." She spoke with a low, musical voice. "I daresay," he said, "I was more foolish in those days than I am now, Mrs. Hunter. Mr. Hunter was obviously far wiser." "Poor Oliver," she said. "He survived our nuptials by less than a year, though I hasten to add that there was no connection between the two events. Shall we continue on our way into the music room, Constantine?" Con hesitated and gave his cousin a hard, meaningful look, but he offered his arm to the widow, and the two of them proceeded on their way.

Norman was making his way toward them with purposeful strides. Duncan had been right in the impression he had had of him the night before last. He had not changed, except in girth and the amount of hair that remained on his head. There was nothing new about the height of his shirt points or the look of pomposity he wore. He was also looking righteously outraged.

And at some time during the past five years he had acquired a second chin. "Sheringford," he said when he was close enough to make himself heard, and though there was no noticeable abatement in the volume of conversation in the library, Duncan would be willing to bet a fortune, if he had one to bet, that everyone in the room would be able to report the conversation verbatim tomorrow morning to anyone unfortunate enough not to be here in person. "Norm," Duncan said pleasantly. "May I have the pleasure of presenting Miss Huxtable? Norman Pennethorne, my love. My cousin – on my father's side, as his name would imply. /Second/ cousin, to be precise." Norman nodded curtly to Miss Huxtable. "I understand, ma'am," he said, "that my dear wife called upon you two mornings ago, though I did not know of her plan until after it had been executed and would have forbidden it if I /had/ known. But I must applaud her courage in doing something so distressing to her entirely out of a concern for your happiness and good name. I see, alas, that her effort was in vain. You have ignored her warning." Duncan would have spoken, but Miss Huxtable spoke first. "Indeed I have not, Mr. Pennethorne," she said. "I was honored by your wife's call and listened very carefully to what she had to say. But there are two sides to most stories, you see, and it would have been quite unfair of me to listen only to hers in this particular case and not also to Lord Sheringford's, especially when he has done me the honor of offering me marriage." She spoke quietly. Even so, Duncan did not doubt there were those who heard every word – or their own version of every word, anyway. "And you have accepted the offer?" Norman said sharply. "If I have," she said, "or if I do at some time in the future, you will be able to read the announcement in the morning papers the following day, sir." Caroline, Duncan noticed, had remained where she was. She looked pale and interesting and had attracted a small cluster of ladies, who were patting her back and her knees and waving handkerchiefs and vials of hartshorn in the vicinity of her nose.

Norman turned his attention away from Miss Huxtable, his chest swelling visibly as he did so. "And /you/, Sheringford," he said, "have not improved with time. You are as contemptuous of the proprieties as you ever were. You do not even have the decency to keep far away from my dear wife and my brother-in-law. You do not have the decency to keep far away from entertainments such as this, where decent folk have the expectation of being kept safe from scoundrels. I would wager Mrs. Henry did not invite you here this evening." Unlike Miss Huxtable, Norman was making no attempt to pitch his voice below the general level of conversation. He spoke as if he were addressing one of the chambers in the Houses of Parliament, with clear enunciation and eloquent passion. "It has been a pleasure to see you again too, Norm," Duncan said amiably. "Now, if you will excuse us, we will continue on our way to the dining room. Miss Huxtable is in need of refreshments." By a process of elimination, he thought, Turner must be in the dining room. But he would not turn back now and have the morning papers expose him as a coward. "I must demand," Norman said, "that you leave a home that also shelters my wife." Oh, good Lord, the man really ought to be on the stage. "I shall be happy to leave the house, Norm," Duncan said, "when Miss Huxtable informs me that she is ready to return home. Or when my aunt asks me to leave." He looked down at Miss Huxtable and wished he had insisted that she go home earlier. It was unfair to embroil her in this nastiness. The gossip of the last few days would surely be nothing compared to tomorrow's. And here she was, trapped in the middle of it.

Except that, as she had informed him a few minutes ago, he did not have the power to compel her to do anything she did not wish to do. "If you are attempting to attract attention and embarrass your wife, sir," she said quietly to Norman, "you are succeeding admirably. You will excuse us, if you please." And she linked her arm through Duncan's again and drew him in the direction of the dining room – at the exact moment when Randolph Turner, a young lady on each arm, was exiting it.

It was an exquisitely timed moment, Duncan was forced to admit.

Excellent theater. Very few people in the library even pretended any longer not to be eavesdropping. "Turner," Duncan said, and inclined his head.

Turner stopped walking abruptly and blanched.

He looked like the quintessential romantic hero, Duncan thought, looking critically at him while he awaited some reply to his slight greeting. He was tall and well formed, with smooth blond hair, pale blue eyes, a finely chiseled nose, and a sensitive mouth. They had made an extraordinarily handsome couple, he and Laura, who had shared his coloring.

Norman did not wait for his brother-in-law to reply. Instead, he came striding up to stand between Turner and Duncan. "Randolph," he said, "I tried to persuade Sheringford to leave quietly before you were forced to come face-to-face with him. I understand how unspeakably painful this encounter must be to you – and in such a public place too. But he has refused to leave, and so on his own head must be the consequences. There are numerous witnesses, all of whom no doubt share your outrage and mine. No one will blame you for speaking your mind here and now and demanding satisfaction. All will attest to the fact that you were given no alternative." Duncan regarded Turner with raised eyebrows. The man's already pasty complexion acquired the color and consistency of chalk. He stared back at Duncan, his jaw set hard, his eyes inscrutable.

What /did/ one say to the man one had allowed to run off with one's wife without making any attempt to pursue him and run him to earth and throttle the life out of him on the one hand, or to spurn and divorce the faithless wife on the other?

What did one say to the man one must suspect knew all one's deepest, darkest, nastiest secrets? "I loved my wife," Turner said, "more than life itself." The two young ladies drew closer to his sides. One of them gazed worshipfully up at him. The other twined both arms about his.

Duncan nodded. "Yes, she told me all about that," he said. "You had /no right/," Turner said, "to interfere between a man and his lawful wife." Duncan did not turn his head to look, but he would wager a sizable amount that more than one lace-edged handkerchief was being raised to more than one feminine eye in the room behind him. "No /lawful/ right at all," Duncan agreed. "Randolph," Norman said sternly.

Turner glanced at him uneasily and licked his lips. "You will wish to demand satisfaction from the scoundrel," Norman said.

There was a collective feminine gasp from the room.

Miss Huxtable's hand tightened on Duncan's arm. "A duel?" Duncan said. "Have duels been made legal since I was last in London, then, Norm? That is an interesting development. Do you /wish/ to challenge me, Turner? With so many witnesses? Even ladies?" "I – " Turner began. "Of course you do, Randolph," Norman said briskly and firmly. "I will be your second. There is surely not a person here present who would not applaud you for taking such a firm stand with the villain who exposed your sister to public humiliation and destroyed your happy marriage." Someone really ought to find Norman a seat in the House of Commons if he did not wish to be an actor. He would sweep all before him with his oratory. "There is at least one person present who would /certainly/ not applaud such a childish way of settling an old quarrel," Miss Huxtable said. "What on earth will be settled if one of you blows out the brains of the other? I would suggest a rational discussion of your differences – in private." The pervading silence suggested that hers was a minority view It was not an entirely unilateral one, though. "Miss Huxtable," Turner said, fixing his eyes on her. "I presume that is who you are, ma'am, though I regret never having been introduced to you.

You are quite right. Mrs. Henry's home is /not/ the place for such a distasteful confrontation. And it has never been my belief that violence settles anything. Besides – forgive me, ma'am – I do not believe the Earl of Sheringford worthy of the honor of a duel. He has chosen his path to hell and will be allowed to tread it to the end as far as I am concerned. I feel no compulsion to speed him on his way." Now /both/ young ladies were gazing worshipfully at him. Someone in the library stifled a sob. Someone else sniffed quite audibly.

Duncan smiled, his eyes fixed on Turner's. "It has never been your belief that violence settles anything," he said softly. "One can only admire and respect such pacifist views. If you should change your mind, you know where to find me, I do not doubt, though I must caution you that Sir Graham Carling may not be overly delighted to have his home invaded by two belligerent gentlemen – an aggrieved husband and a man who is his relative, though not his brother." Turner's eyes bored back into his own. /Yes, of course I know/, Duncan told him silently. /Did you comfort yourself for one moment in the last five years with the possibility that I did not/? "Randolph," Norman said sharply, "think of your poor late wife if you will. Think of your sister." Duncan looked down at Margaret Huxtable. "Shall we go in pursuit of that lemonade?" he suggested. "A drink would be very welcome indeed," she said, and they proceeded into the dining room after Turner and his entourage had stepped smartly out of the way.

It was clear that the occupants of the dining room had been following the encounter as avidly as those in the library. There was a loud silence as everyone gawked at them, and then everyone turned away and rushed back into merry conversation with one another. "Well," Duncan said, "I hope you are enjoying your public wooing, Miss Huxtable." "If a duel is ever fought," she said, her voice trembling with emotion, "and if one drop of blood is shed on either side, I shall personally kill you." "That," he said, "is mildly illogical, is it not? But I did not realize you cared so deeply." She looked into his eyes and kept her voice low, though it still throbbed with feeling. "That poor man," she said. "Tomorrow, Lord Sheringford, you must call upon him – /if/ he will receive you – and apologize. Most humbly and most sincerely. You wronged him, and while you cannot change the past or expect forgiveness for it, you can at least acknowledge that what you did was very wrong, that the suffering you caused was inexcusable. You will apologize, Lord Sheringford." He raised his eyebrows. "Or else?" "Oh," she said, "do there have to be ultimatums before you will do what is right? You /must/ apologize." "You advocate lies, Maggie?" he asked her. "Lies?" She frowned. "No, I do not, though I have told some of my own in the past few days – none of which has done me a great deal of good." "And yet," he said, "you would have /me/ lie?" She continued to frown. "I am not sorry," he said. "If I apologize, I will be lying." She closed her eyes for a moment and her shoulders slumped. "Oh, you foolish man," she said. "You must have loved her a great deal.

But love ought not to cause dishonor. Or pain." "Can you have lived to the age of thirty and still be so naive?" he asked her.

Her eyes snapped open. "Let me fetch you some lemonade," he suggested.

The Earl of Sheringford was taking an empty plate from her hand and returning it to one of the tables before Margaret realized that she must have eaten something – she could not remember what. And her glass was empty. Lemonade? Yes, she could still taste it.

She was smiling. Lady Carling was coming toward her like a ship in full sail, both hands outstretched in front of her. "The Deans invited us to dinner ages ago," she said, kissing Margaret's cheek, "/long/ before Agatha set the date for her soiree. We have only now been able to get away and come here. And thus we have missed all the excitement. Margaret, my dear, you must be a saint to have borne it all and still be standing at Duncan's side. I understand Randolph Turner declined to challenge him to a duel, which is surprising really and even slightly shameful, though I am vastly glad he did. My nerves would never have recovered from the strain. Duncan, my love, you have no choice now but to eat a great deal of humble pie and apologize. You ought to have done it long ago." "He says he will not," Margaret told her. "He says he is not sorry." His mother clucked her tongue. "Laura Turner was a very fortunate woman, then," she said. "Duncan, you may fetch me some ratafia." Another half hour or so passed, most of it in company with Lady Carling and some of her friends, before Lord Sheringford suggested again that he escort Margaret home. She had never been more glad of anything in her life, though she would have died rather than ask to be taken. She felt exhausted.

Whatever had she got herself into? But whatever it was, she had no one to blame but herself.

Ought she to inform him when he took her back to Merton House that she had made a definite decision not to marry him, that she did not wish to see him again? He would still have time to find someone else. And really and realistically – how could she ever agree to marry a man who apparently had no conscience?

But who else would have him if she did not?

That was /definitely/ not her concern.

Stephen was in the drawing room, part of a large group of young people who seemed all to be talking and laughing at once. He detached himself from the group when he saw them come in from the music room. "You are leaving, Meg?" he said. "May I escort you?" "No, thank you, Stephen," she said. "Lord Sheringford will do that." "Let me at least call the carriage, then," he said. "No." She smiled at him. "It is a lovely evening – or was the last time I looked out a window." The earl did not own a carriage, and she had rejected his offer to hire one for the occasion. They had walked the short distance to the soiree.

They took their leave of Mrs. Henry, who shook her head at her nephew, kissed his cheek, and told him that he had made her so famous that simply everyone would clamor to attend her next entertainment. "Everyone who refused an invitation to this one will bitterly regret it," she said.