Slightly Wicked

Chapter XXII

A few hours passed before Horace Effingham was led away from Branwell Law’s rooms under the escort of two burly men Bewcastle had conjured up from somewhere without ever leaving the room himself. Effingham was to spend the night in his own lodgings, under guard, and was then to be escorted back to Harewood Grange for his father to deal with, presumably in consultation with Mrs. Law, who was the injured party.

Effingham left with a red, bulbous nose and an eye that would be closed and black by the morning—both courtesy of Branwell Law within two minutes of the ladies’ departure. The Bow Street Runner had left a few minutes after that.

Rannulf had not laid a violent hand upon Effingham except to grab him by the scruff of the neck and hoist him up onto his toes a couple of times when he attempted obstinacy and insolence. Rannulf would have liked nothing better than to pound the villain to a bloody pulp, but Bewcastle’s cold, silent presence had a calming effect on him. What did violence prove, after all, but that one was physically stronger than the other? A physical show of force had been altogether appropriate outside his grandmother’s summer‘

house. Here it would have been mere self-indulgence.

Law produced pen, ink, and paper when asked to do so and Effingham was instructed to sit at the table and write his letters of confession and apology—one to Mrs. Law, one to Sir George Effingham, one to the Reverend Jeremiah Law. The task took almost two hours, principally because Rannulf did not like most of the letters. Before there were three that were acceptable to both him and Branwell Law—Bewcastle did not involve himself—they were both wading in crumpled-up sheets of paper that had been tossed to the floor.

The letters were sent on their way, franked by Bewcastle, before Effingham was led away. Detailed, abject, and groveling, they would arrive in the hands of Mrs. Law and Sir George before the culprit himself appeared. It would be a severe enough punishment, Rannulf decided, even though in some ways it seemed less satisfying than a thorough drubbing would have been. Public humiliation was a terrible thing for any man. Effingham’s face when he left, sullen and ugly with hatred and frustration, was testament to that. It would not be easy for him to return to Harewood, to face his father and his step grandmother.

The jewels, the rest of which had been fetched from Effingham’s lodgings, again at Bewcastle’s command, were to be returned to Harewood by special messenger.

“So,” Branwell Law said, sinking into a chair when Effingham and his escorts had finally left, tipping back his head against the rest and placing the back of one hand over his eyes, “that is that. What a ghastly to-do. And to think that I once considered him my friend. I even admired him.” He seemed to remember suddenly in whose company he was and sat up straighter. “I do not know what we would have done without your assistance, Your Grace, and yours, Bedwyn. I cannot thank you enough. Really.

On behalf of Jude too. She did not deserve this.”

“No,” Rannulf agreed, “she did not.”

Law smiled uncertainly and looked from one to the other of them, clearly embarrassed now that he was alone with a duke and the duke’s brother.

“I want to know the extent of your debts,” Rannulf said, remaining on his feet and clasping his hands at his back.

“Oh, I say.” Law flushed. “They are trifling. Nothing I cannot handle.”

Rannulf took one step closer to him. “I want to know the full extent of them,” he said, “down to the last penny.” He indicated the table, still strewn with paper, ink, and one unused quill pen. “Write it all down, every last trifling amount.”

“Oh, I say,” Law said again. “I most certainly will not do that, Bedwyn. You have no business—”

Rannulf reached down, took hold of the young man’s neckcloth, and lifted him to his feet. “I am making it my business,” he said. “I want to know everything you owe— everything, do you understand me? I am going to pay your debts for you.”

“Oh, I say,” Law said for the third time, indignant now. “I cannot let you do that for me. I will come about—”

“I will not be doing it for you ,” Rannulf told him.

Law drew breath again and then closed his mouth. He frowned. “For Jude?”

“You have all but beggared your family,” Rannulf said, “and are clearly about to complete the process.

Miss Judith Law has already been farmed out to wealthier relatives, who treated her like a glorified servant. One of your other sisters is about to suffer the same fate. And there are two more as well as your mother at home. A young puppy is entitled to sow a few wild oats, tiresome as he may become to all who know him. He is not entitled to bring ruin and misery on his whole family. You are not entitled to bring unhappiness to Miss Judith Law. Start writing. Take your time and make sure you forget nothing.

Your debts will be paid, you will be given enough ready cash to pay your rent and the barest of your expenses for the next month, and then you will support yourself on your own earnings or starve. One thing I will have your gentleman’s word on. You will never again apply to your father for even as much as a single penny.”

Law was white-faced. “You would do all this for Judith!” he asked.

Rannulf merely narrowed his eyes and pointed to the table again. Law sat, picked up the pen, and dipped it in the inkwell.

Rannulf glanced at Bewcastle, who was seated at the other side of the room, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers steepled. He raised his eyebrows when he met his brother’s eyes but offered no comment.

The following half hour passed in silence except for the scraping of Law’s pen and a few whispers as he added up columns of figures. Twice he got up and disappeared into the bedchamber to reappear with a bill.

“There,” he said at last, blotting the sheet and turning to hand it to Rannulf. “That is everything. It is a considerable amount, I’m afraid.” His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

It did not seem a particularly enormous sum to Rannulf, but to a man who did not have the means with which to pay even the first pound of the debt, it must seem astronomical indeed.

“One word of advice,” Rannulf said. “Gaming can be a pleasurable activity if one has money to lose and if one sets strict limits on the amount one is prepared to bet. It is a miserable, hellish way to try to recoup nonexistent fortunes.”

“Don’t I just know it,” Law said fervently. “I will never make another wager in my life.”

Rannulf raised his eyebrows.

“Now, Mr. Law,” Bewcastle said, breaking a long silence, “you will tell me what sort of career you think yourself best fitted for.”

They both turned to stare at him.

“The diplomatic service?” Bewcastle suggested. “The law? The military? The church?”

“Not the church,” Law said. “I cannot imagine anything more tedious. And not the military. Or the law.”

“The diplomatic service, then?”

“I have always thought I would enjoy something in commerce or trade,” Law said. “The East India Company or something like that. I would like to go to India or somewhere overseas. But my father always said it would be beneath the dignity of a gentleman.”

“Certain positions are not,” Bewcastle said, “though of course a novice could not expect to occupy one of the hallowed positions in any company before working hard at lowlier tasks and proving himself.”

“I am ready to work hard,” Law said. “To tell the truth, I am rather sick of the life I have been living.

There is no enjoyment in it when one does not have the money one’s companions have.”

“Quite so,” Bewcastle agreed. “You may call on me tomorrow morning, Mr. Law, at ten o’clock. I will see what I can do for you by then.”

“You would help me start a career?” Law asked. “You would do that for me, Your Grace?”

Bewcastle did not deign to reply. He got to his feet and picked up his hat and cane. He nodded curtly to Branwell Law by way of farewell.

“I trust Freyja had the carriage returned for our use, Rannulf,” he said.

She had. And it was a good thing too—it was raining. Rannulf left the seat facing the horses for Bewcastle and settled into the other with a sigh. He felt exhausted. All he wanted was to get back home to see Judith, to take her in his arms—he would not care if all his brothers and sisters were lined up to see him do it—and assure her that her ordeal was over, that all was well, that there was nothing left for them to do but waltz off into their happily ever after together.

“That was decent of you, Wulf,” he said when the door had been closed and the carriage was in motion.

“The only chance he has to reform his life is to settle into a steady career. Yet without influence his choices would be severely limited.”

“You are planning to marry Miss Law?” his brother asked.

“I am.” Rannulf looked at him warily.

“She is,” Wulfric said, “despite the plainness of her dress and the severity of the style of her hair, quite extraordinarily beautiful. You have always had an eye for such women.”

“There is no one to compare to Judith Law,” Rannulf said. “But if you think I see nothing but her physical beauty, Wulf, you are wrong.”

“She has been something of a damsel in distress,” Wulfric said, “in more ways than one. The gallant urge to ride to the rescue can sometimes be mistaken for love, I believe.”

“She has never behaved like a victim,” Rannulf assured him. “And I am not mistaken. If you are about to recite all the ways in which she is not an eligible bride for me, Wulf, you may save your breath. I know them all and they make no difference whatsoever to my feelings for her. I have position, money, and prospects enough that I do not need a wealthy bride.”

His brother did not comment.

“I take it, then,” Rannulf said after some moments of silence, “that I will not have your blessing, Wulf?”

“Is it important to you?”

Rannulf thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said at last, “It is. You frequently infuriate me, Wulf, and I will never allow myself to be dominated by you, but I respect you perhaps more than I respect anyone else I know. You have always done your duty, and sometimes you go the extra mile for one of us even when it must be distasteful or tedious for you to do it. Like the time a month or two ago when you went into Oxfordshire to help Eve and Aidan regain custody of her foster children—the orphans of a lowly shopkeeper. And like what you have done for me today. Yes, your blessing is important to me. But I will marry Judith with or without it.”

“You have it,” Wulf said softly. “I would not be doing my duty if I did not point out to you all the possible sources of future dissatisfaction, once the bloom of romance has faded. Marriage is a lifetime commitment, and we Bedwyns have always been faithful to our spouses. But your choice of bride is yours to make, Rannulf. You are of age, and it is you who must live with her for the rest of your life.”

Was that why Bewcastle had never married? Rannulf wondered. In his cold, calculated way, had he always considered the possible sources of future dissatisfaction? But as far as Rannulf knew, his eldest brother had never shown even the slightest interest in any lady despite the fact that for years he had been one of England’s most eligible bachelors. He had kept the same mistress for years, but no romance that might have led to matrimony.

“I am not expecting happily ever after, Wulf,” Rannulf said. “But I am expecting to be happy even after the bloom has faded from the rose. As you just said, marriage is a lifetime commitment.”

They did not talk anymore, and as soon as the carriage drew up before the doors of Bedwyn House Rannulf vaulted out and hurried inside and up the stairs to the drawing room. Alleyne, Freyja, and Morgan were there but not Judith.

“Ah, at last,” Alleyne said. “Come and tell us the rest of the story, Ralf. Apparently Free and Miss Law were banished at the most interesting moment. Let me see your knuckles.”

“Where is Judith?” Rannulf asked.

“In her room, I suppose,” Alleyne said. “Overcome by all the excitement, no doubt. Did Effingham put up a fight? If he did, he missed your face, even the large target of the Bedwyn nose.” He grinned.

“She is not,” Morgan said. “That is all you know, Alleyne. She is not in her room. She has gone.”

Rannulf looked sharply at her and then at Freyja, who was sitting unnaturally still and had not clamored immediately for a report on what had happened after she left Law’s rooms.

“She has gone home,” she said, “by stagecoach.”

“Home?” Rannulf stared blankly at her.

“To Beaconsfield in Wiltshire,” she explained. “To the rectory. Home, Ralf, where she feels she belongs.”

He stared at her, aghast.

“Bloody hell,” he said.

It spoke volumes of the Bedwyns that neither lady displayed even the slightest evidence of shock.

It rained through most of the night, slowing the progress of the stagecoach and a couple of times causing Judith’s stomach to clench in terror as the coach slithered on particularly bad stretches of mud. But by morning the sky had cleared and the sun was shining again, and there were familiar faces to smile at her and call greetings to her when she was set down outside the inn in Beaconsfield.

They were hardly reassuring. As she trudged along the street toward the rectory at the other end of the village, she felt as if she trod on her heart every step of the way. She had not even taken a final look at him, and foolishly she had kept on panicking throughout the seemingly interminable journey, not being able to bring his face into focus in her mind.

Her story had had a happy ending. She kept telling herself that. Both she and Bran had been cleared of the robbery charges against them and the true culprit caught. Grandmama’s jewels had been recovered—at least she assumed they would all be recovered since Horace had not denied having the rest of them at his lodgings. She was going home—Aunt Effingham would certainly not want her back at Harewood now. It was unlikely that she would want any of them there, and so even Hilary might be safe from the misery of going there to live.

But it did not feel like a happy ending. Her heart was crushed and she thought it might take longer than forever to heal.

Besides, it was not a completely happy ending even if she ignored the state of her heart. Nothing had been solved for her family. Quite the contrary. Bran was hopelessly in debt, and it seemed as if the only ways he could think of to get himself out of debt were to gamble and to beg Papa for help. He would be forced to take that latter course soon, and then they would all descend into poverty indeed. It seemed altogether possible that Bran’s ultimate destination was going to be debtors’ prison. Perhaps Papa’s too.

No, it was a miserable morning in every way it was possible to be miserable. But even as she thought it, the door of the rectory opened and Pamela and Hilary came dashing outside, Hilary shrieking.

“Jude!” she cried. “Jude, you have come home.”

Judith set down her bag in the roadway by the garden gate and laughed with happiness despite herself as first one sister and then the other flung themselves into her arms and hugged all the breath out of her.

Cassandra came more slowly behind them smiling warmly and holding out both arms as she came.

“Judith,” she said, hugging her too. “Oh, Jude, we have been so afraid that you would not come home and we would never see you again.” Tears were welling from her eyes. “I know there must be an explanation. I just know it. Where is Bran?”

But before Judith could reply, she became aware of her father’s stern, silent figure in the doorway.

Invisible fingers of doom reached out to envelop her.

“Judith,” he said without raising his voice—it was his pulpit voice, “you will come into my study, if you please.”

Obviously they had heard something from Harewood.

“I have just come from London, Papa,” she said. “Grandmama’s jewels have all been recovered. It was Horace Effingham who stole them with the sole purpose of incriminating Branwell and me. But he has been caught and has confessed. There were more witnesses than just Bran and me, the Duke of Bewcastle among them. I daresay all will be explained to Grandmama and Uncle George within the next few days.”

“Oh, Jude.” Cassandra was weeping in earnest now. “I knew it. I did, I did. I never doubted you for a moment.”

Mama came elbowing past Papa then and rushed down the path to catch Judith up in a mighty hug. “I was in the kitchen,” she cried. “Girls, why did you not call me? Judith, my love. And Branwell has been cleared too? That boy is a trouble to poor Papa, but he could never be a thief any more than you could.

You came on the coach?” She smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen from beneath Judith’s bonnet. “You look dead on your feet, child. Come and have some breakfast and I will tuck you into your bed.”

For once Papa was overpowered by his women. He stood frowning and troubled, but he made no other attempt to take Judith aside to chastise her in any way for what he had heard from Harewood. And no one, Judith realized, commented on her mention of the Duke of Bewcastle. After she had been led off to the kitchen, she did not see her father again until after noon. She had not lain down as she had been pressed to do but had spent the morning with her mother and sisters in the sitting room. While they had all been busy sewing, she had written two letters—one to the Duke of Bewcastle and one to Lord Rannulf. She owed them both a deep debt of gratitude, yet she had rushed away from Bedwyn House without a word to either of them. She had just finished the long and difficult task when her father came into the room, the habitual frown on his face, an open letter in his hand.

“I have just received this from Horace Effingham,” he said. “It bears out what you told me this morning, Judith. It is a complete confession, not only of the theft and the attempt to incriminate you and Branwell, but also of his motive. He tried to force his attentions on you at Harewood, Judith, and you very properly repelled them. His scheme was an attempt to avenge himself on you. According to his letter, he has also written to my mother and to Sir George.”

Judith closed her eyes. She knew they had all believed her this morning—even Papa. But what a relief it was to be fully exonerated. Horace would never have written such a letter of his own volition, of course, especially the humiliating part about her rejecting his advances and his wanting revenge. He had been forced into writing it—by Lord Rannulf. Had it really all happened just yesterday? It seemed an age ago.

Rannulf had done it all for her sake.

“Your name is cleared, Judith,” Papa said. “But why would Horace Effingham have believed that you might welcome his improper advances? And where is your cap today?”

It was the old story. Men looked on her with lust, and Papa blamed her. The only difference was that she now knew she was not ugly.

I can truly say that I have never ever seen any woman whose beauty comes even close to matching yours .

She tried to bring back the sound of his voice as he spoke the words to her out at the pool behind Harewood.

“I do not want to wear one any longer, Papa,” she said.

Surprisingly he did not reprimand her or order her to her room to put one on. Instead he held up another letter, still sealed.

“This came for you yesterday,” he said. “It is from your grandmother.”

Her stomach churned. She did not want to read it. Grandmama had believed she was the thief. She would still have believed it when she wrote the letter. Judith got to her feet anyway and took it from her father’s hand. But suddenly she could not bear to be indoors, surrounded by all the comfortable normality of family life. Nothing was normal. Nothing ever would be again.

“I’ll read it in the garden,” she said.

She did not stop to fetch her bonnet. She went out through the back door and saw that all her mother’s summer flowers were blooming in a riot of color. But she could not enjoy the beauty. Soon Bran well was going to have to apply to Papa again to help him out of his difficulties. And even if she could blank her mind to that, Judith could think of very little to buoy her spirits.

She had not even turned to take a final look at him.

The garden was too suffocatingly close to the house. She looked longingly at the rolling hills beyond the back fence, long her refuge when she had wanted to be alone. The hills, where she had roamed and sat and read during her girlhood, and where she had acted, proclaiming other identities aloud to the listening hills. She opened the gate and strode upward, stopping only when she came to a familiar large, flat stone two-thirds the way to the top of the closest hill. From it she could see the valley and the village below and the hedgerows of the surrounding farms. She sat there for perhaps half an hour before pulling her grandmother’s letter out of her pocket.

It was a tearful one even though there was no physical sign of the tears. For one weak hour, she had written to Judith, she had believed the damning evidence. She had grown to love her granddaughter during two weeks more dearly than she had loved anyone since Judith’s grandpapa died, and she would have forgiven her, but she had believed. But only for one hour. She had lived through a wretched night of remorse and had gone as soon as she felt she decently could to Judith’s room to beg her pardon—on her old knees if necessary. But Judith had gone. She was not sure she would ever be able to forgive herself for doubting even for that hour. Could Judith forgive her?

Judith could not. She crumpled the letter in one hand and stared away from the valley with tear-filled eyes. She could not.

But then she remembered how she had suspected Branwell—for a great deal longer than an hour.

Indeed, she had not been quite certain of his innocence until the proof was finally offered to her. In what way was she different from Grandmama, who had not even had proof of her innocence when she wrote this letter?

Would she allow Horace that final victory of having caused lasting bitterness between Judith and the old lady who had become as dear to her in two weeks as any of her family members in the rectory below?

“Grandmama,” she whispered, holding the letter against her lips. “Oh, Grandmama.”

She sat there for a long while after smoothing out the letter, folding it carefully, and putting it back in the pocket of her dress, her knees drawn up, her arms clasped about them, gazing across the hills rather than down, basking in the heat of the sun and the coolness of the breeze, turning her unhappiness inside out and looking squarely at it.

She had a family who loved her. Soon life was going to become more and more difficult for them. But they were a family, and Papa would still have his living. They would surely not be quite, quite destitute.

How selfish of her to be afraid of being poor. Thousands of poor people survived and lived lives of dignity and worth. She had a grandmother who loved her perhaps more than she loved anyone else in this world. How blessed to be so loved! She could not have the man she loved, it was true, but thousands could not. Heartache was not a death sentence. She was twenty-two years old. She was still young. She would never marry—she could not now even if some decent man was ever willing to take her without any dowry. But life without marriage did not mean life without all meaning or life without all happiness.

She would make her own happiness. She would . She would not have unreasonable expectations of herself. She would allow some time for grieving, but she would not wallow in her own misery. She would not become mired in self-pity.

She would do more than exist through the years that remained to her. She would live!

“I was beginning to think,” a familiar voice said, “that I would have to climb all the way to the top before finding you.”

She spun around, shading her eyes against the sun as she did so.

She had forgotten, she thought with utter foolishness, just how very attractive he was.