The Secret Mistress

Chapter 19

MISS GODDARD AND Lord Windrow were engaged in a spirited discussion of Mr. Richardson’s Pamela, which Angeline had never read, partly because it had always looked disconcertingly long and partly because she had never found its subtitle, Or Virtue Rewarded, even the smallest little bit enticing. Miss Goddard was of the opinion that the hero was the most worthless villain in all of literature—and that included Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello—while Lord Windrow argued that a reformed rake made the most steadfast and worthy of heroes for the rest of his life.

Since Lord Windrow expressed himself with lazy wit and Miss Goddard’s earnest opinions were frequently punctuated with bursts of laughter, Angeline felt she really ought to enjoy just listening. She ought indeed to offer an opinion of her own, even if she had not read the book. After all, she did have something to say on the subject of rakes and the possibility—or impossibility—of their ever being reformed.

But she could not concentrate.

She felt a little sick, if the truth were known. They had been here at the Peacock Inn far longer than they needed to be just to change the horses on Lord Windrow’s carriage and partake of tea in the private parlor. They had all had two cups of tea, and what remained in the pot must be cold. They had eaten all the cakes on the plate.

And still Lord Heyward had not come.

Angeline had given her letter—it had turned into something longer than a note after the second paragraph—to Miss Goddard, who had gone off to hand it to the butler with clear instructions to put it into Lord Heyward’s hands and no other’s at four o’clock. Lord Heyward could not have mistaken the danger she had described. She had felt when she had finished composing it, in fact, that she really ought to write a Gothic novel. She certainly appeared to have the talent for lurid hyperbole. He must be consumed with anxiety for Miss Goddard.

But he had not come yet.

She had mentioned the inn in the letter, though she had not known its name at the time. But surely he would not have driven right on past. It was a small inn with a small inn yard. And the gates were open wide. Even if he had not known about the possible stop here, he surely could not have missed seeing the carriage in the yard as he passed.

She just hoped that when he came—if he came—Miss Goddard would not be laughing. And if she, Angeline, could only have some advance warning of his arrival, she would slip off to use the necessary so that he would find Miss Goddard and Lord Windrow alone together—Miss Goddard’s maid was taking refreshments in the kitchen.

Oh, would he never come? This was like waiting for Tresham at the Rose and Crown all over again. Except that then she had been excited and exuberant in anticipation of her come-out and the Season and beaux and marriage and happiness, while now she was mortally depressed. For if he came, it would be because he loved Miss Goddard, and it would be such an extravagant gesture that there would be no going back from it.

Nothing could make Angeline happier.

She felt as if every part of her—even her eyelids when she blinked—were made of lead.

Waltzing under the stars ought to be outlawed. It really ought. And so should rolling down hills. And so should … Well, everything ought to be outlawed.

“Ah, fair one,” Lord Windrow said, addressing her directly, “you simply must speak up in defense of rakes. In my defense, that is. I am a man who visits his mother on her birthday. Would a heartless villain do that?”

Despite herself Angeline laughed. And oh, goodness, she had depicted him as just that—a heartless villain—in the letter she had left behind. Yet she could not help liking him. Conscience smote her, as it ought to have done much sooner. She really ought not to have used him in such a dastardly way to arouse Lord Heyward’s jealousy, for his behavior toward Miss Goddard had never been improper. And even to herself it had been improper only that once.

As if she needed guilt to be added to all her other burdens.

She hoped Lord Heyward would not come. Perhaps Cousin Rosalie’s butler had forgotten to deliver the letter. Perhaps he had not read it. Or perhaps he had merely laughed at it and dismissed its contents as the ravings of someone who had read too many Gothic novels.

“I believe the word rake needs to be defined,” she said. “Or at least it needs to be established what a rake is not. As I understand it from what the two of you have been saying, the hero of Pamela is not a rake at all, for it seems he tried on a number of occasions to take Pamela’s virtue by force and quite against her will. That man is an out-and-out villain, who ought not to be dignified with the name of rake. A rake, though capable of all sorts of wild, debauched, silly behavior, is still first and foremost a gentleman. And a gentleman never ever deprives a woman—and I speak not just of ladies—of her virtue against her will.”

“Oh, bravo,” Lord Windrow said.

“Wonderfully well expressed,” Miss Goddard said.

“A rake may never be reformed,” Angeline said, “for most men believe it is a manly thing to be and something to which their gender entitles them. But they are not villainous for all that. Or, if they are, then they have put themselves beyond the pale of mere rakishness.”

Lord Windrow and Miss Goddard both smiled at her—just as the door of the private sitting room crashed back against the wall and then slammed shut again.

Between the two swift, deafening actions the Earl of Heyward appeared in the room.

Angeline clasped her hands to her bosom. Miss Goddard spread hers on the table. Lord Windrow, who had been sitting with his back to the door, got to his feet and turned.

“Ah, Heyward,” he said. “Come to join us, have—”

Lord Heyward punched him right on the point of the chin. His head snapped back and he would have tumbled backward if the table had not been in the way. As it was, his back bounced off the lid of the teapot, sending it rolling across the table and clattering to the floor. The teapot tipped and spilled its contents over the cloth.

“Edward.” Miss Goddard clutched two fistfuls of the tablecloth.

“Lord Heyward.” Angeline lifted her clasped hands to her mouth and bit into one knuckle.

“You!” Lord Heyward, eyes blazing, grasped the lapels of Lord Windrow’s coat and hoisted him upright. “Outside! Now! I have had enough of you.”

“I rather thought that might be it, old chap,” Lord Windrow said, touching his jaw rather gingerly with his fingertips. “It is one of those occasions when fists have already spoken louder than words.”

“Lord Heyward!” Angeline cried, jumping to her feet. “I was wrong.”

Oh, she was going to do a terrible disservice to Miss Goddard, whose idea this had been. She was going to have to confess all, Angeline decided. She really had not expected that fisticuffs would be the result of her deception.

“Edward, no!” Miss Goddard was also on her feet. “Oh, Lord Windrow, I had no idea this would happen. How foolish of me not to have foreseen it. Edward, all is proper, as you can see. I am with Lady Angeline as a chaperon, and my maid is traveling with us too. We are indeed going to Norton Park to dine with Lady Windrow. I really, really ought not to have written that letter. Oh, now I know why deception is so very wrong. I am dreadfully sorry.”

What letter?

Lord Windrow flexed his jaw as Lord Heyward’s hold on his lapels relaxed slightly.

“I would be delighted to meet you whenever and wherever is convenient to you, Heyward,” Lord Windrow said, “but I would really rather it not be today, if it is all the same to you. I may already have a bruise to explain away to my mother, whose health is not of the soundest. She may well have a fit of the vapors if I appear before her with bulbous nose and bloodshot, blackening eye—or perhaps even eyes—and a missing tooth or two. Besides, there are ladies present.”

“A fact that did not seem to deter you last time,” Lord Heyward said from between his teeth. But he dropped his hands to his sides, and some of the fire went out of him. “I will not have you bothering Lady Angeline Dudley, Windrow, now or ever. Even if she is properly chaperoned. Is that understood?”

Lord Windrow brushed his hands over his lapels.

“I suppose,” he said, “you will not take a step back until I say yes, Heyward, will you? Yes it will have to be, then. I feel a certain discomfort with my nose a mere inch from yours.”

Lord Heyward took a step back and turned his head to glare at Angeline.

What had he meant by saying Lord Windrow must not bother her? What about Miss Goddard?

“I shall remove myself entirely from the lady’s presence,” Lord Windrow said. “Miss Goddard will doubtless hold me steady if my legs should decide to wobble. Miss Goddard?” He turned to offer her his arm.

She looked pointedly at him as though there were a thousand things she wished to say. But then she closed her eyes briefly and shook her head slightly, took his arm, and allowed him to lead her from the room.

Angeline swallowed.

“I have a confession to make,” she said. “I am so sorry. Not a word of that letter I wrote was true.”

“What letter?” Lord Heyward’s eyes narrowed.

“The one I left for you,” she said. “The one Cousin Rosalie’s butler was to give you at four.”

“There seems to have been a good deal of letter-writing going on,” he said. “Who gave the letter to the butler?”

“Miss Goddard,” she said.

“Ah,” he said. “I begin to understand that I no longer know Eunice to even the smallest degree.”

“But you love her,” she said. “And she loves you. This was all her idea, though admittedly it was I who originally suggested that you must be encouraged to acknowledge your feelings and the truth that you cannot live without her. What better way to realize that than through fear for her safety at the hands of a rake? And what better person to make you feel that way than Lord Windrow? I asked Rosalie to invite both him and Miss Goddard to Hallings so that I could arrange something—and make your family see that she is not vulgar at all, even if she is not strictly speaking a member of the ton. But I found I could not do it alone and so I took Miss Goddard into my confidence. She was both willing and eager to help implement my plan. But the first part did not work. Instead of going to rescue her from Lord Windrow when we were out walking yesterday, you insisted upon helping me get rid of the stone in my shoe instead, even though there was not really a stone in it at all. It was all a ruse. Miss Goddard said today that we needed more drastic action, and suggested this and the letter I left for you. And I did it, though I realize now I ought not to have, for there have been too many lies, and even apart from those I have been very unfair indeed to Lord Windrow, who has never treated either me or Miss Goddard with disrespect—well, except for that very first time. But no real harm was done then, was it? As soon as you pointed out his error to him, or almost as soon, he apologized—after you had insisted—and went on his way. And now I have caused him to get hurt. You hit him very hard. And it was all my fault. And nothing has worked as it ought, has it? Here you are talking to me instead of to Miss Goddard. Or, rather, here I am talking to you instead of sending you after her. Oh, why does nothing work?”

And when, during her lengthy, muddled speech, had he stepped closer to her—closer even than he had been to Lord Windrow?

“Perhaps,” he said softly, “because you have everything wrong, Angeline.”

No Lady before her name?

She swallowed and gazed into his very blue eyes. She had no choice, really. There was nowhere else to look unless she stepped back, and there was no way of doing that without tripping over her chair.

“Do I?” she said.

“It is not Eunice I love,” he said.

“Oh?”

She dared not hope. Oh, she dared not. Perhaps he only meant that he did not love anyone. Not in that way, anyway. Perhaps he had not changed. Perhaps he never would.

She sank her teeth into her lower lip.

“It is you I love,” he said.

Oh.

Ohhh!

It was precisely at that moment that they both heard the unmistakable clopping of horses’ hooves, and the rumbling of carriage wheels over the cobbles of the inn yard and out onto the street and along it until the sounds gradually faded into the distance.

I AM NOT at all sure,” Eunice said from within Lord Windrow’s carriage, “that we are doing the right thing. Indeed, I am rather sure we are doing the wrong thing. For I did not notice another carriage, did you? Edward must have ridden here, a complication I did not foresee.”

Lord Windrow, seated across one corner of the carriage, his foot braced on the seat opposite, his arms crossed over his chest, regarded her with amused eyes from beneath drooped eyelids.

“My dear Miss Goddard,” he said, “would a man about to race in pursuit of his lady love, whom he feared was being abducted by a black-hearted villain, stop to call out his carriage?”

“You knew, then,” she said, “even when we devised this scheme? But what are they to do now?”

“Ride together on the same horse,” he said. “A means of locomotion that is vastly romantic in theory, deucedly uncomfortable in practice. Hire a carriage. I daresay the Peacock has some rickety old thing that would serve the purpose. It would, however, and beyond all doubt, be deucedly uncomfortable in both theory and practice. Stay where they are until we return for them. That option has the potential for all sorts of comfort. They have at least three clear choices, then, as you can see.”

“We will return for them?” she said. “Soon?”

“Tomorrow morning,” he said, “after we have breakfasted at Norton and taken leave of my mother.”

“But what if there is no carriage for hire?” she asked, frowning.

“Then their choices will be reduced to two,” he said. “There will be less cause for dithering.”

She turned her head to gaze at him.

“You do not really believe they will remain at the Peacock, do you?” she asked. “Edward would be the perfect gentleman, of course, and I daresay there are enough rooms for the two of them. It did not look a crowded place, did it? But even so, Lady Angeline would be ruined. We did not even leave her my maid.”

He smiled lazily.

“I have distinct hopes for Heyward,” he said. “That punch he threw—in front of ladies—hurt like Hades. I can still feel it. I do believe he may not act the gentleman at all tonight. I would not wager upon it, however. He has never been known to set a foot wrong in all of human history to date, and now he has already done it once today. He will either decide that that is quite enough adventure for the next millennium or two, or he will discover in himself a taste for anarchy. One can only hope. As my favorite groom in all the world liked to remark with great wisdom and no originality whatsoever when I was a child, one may lead a horse to water, but one cannot make him drink. And as for your maid, you have need of her yourself. My mother would have a fit of the vapors if you were to arrive unchaperoned, and she would scold me for a month after regaining consciousness. Besides, it may not have escaped your attention that your maid is quite happy to ride up on the box with my coachman and that he is quite happy to have her there. It would have been cruel to them both to have left her behind at the Peacock.”

Eunice sighed.

“I never ought to have agreed to this perfectly mad scheme,” she said. “For Lady Angeline will be ruined whether she comes to Norton unchaperoned later today or returns to Hallings unchaperoned tonight or—heaven forbid—remains at the Peacock until our return tomorrow morning. And I will blame myself for the rest of my life. Whatever was I thinking?”

Lord Windrow reached out and took her hand in his.

“You were thinking of bringing your two friends together in a match made in heaven,” he said, “since they did not seem to possess the good sense to do it for themselves. I was thinking of a way to get you to myself again for a while.”

She looked down at their hands for a moment before curling her fingers about his and sighing again.

“I ought not to encourage you,” she said. “You are a rake.”

“Ah,” he said, “but even Lady Angeline Dudley admits that rakes may sometimes be reformed. It is certainly within the bounds of possibility that I may be one of their number. Not probability, perhaps—she did speak of it rather as if it resembled a Forlorn Hope, did she not? But definitely a possibility.”

“I am the daughter of a Cambridge don,” Eunice said apropos of nothing.

“I daresay,” he said, “he is fiendishly intelligent and bookish.”

“He is,” she agreed.

“Both of which traits he has passed on to you,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Though perhaps not the fiendishly part.”

He lifted her hand and set the back of it briefly against his lips.

“May intelligent, bookish ladies sometimes be reformed?” he asked her.

She thought about it.

“I suppose it may be within the bounds of possibility,” she said, “even if not of probability.”

“Under what circumstances might it?” he asked.

“I have discovered within myself in the last while,” she said, “a desire to …”

“Yes?” he prompted her when she fell silent.

“To enjoy life,” she said.

“And you cannot enjoy being intelligent and bookish?” he asked.

“I can appreciate both,” she said. “I always have and always will. I certainly have no wish to renounce either. I just want to … to have some fun.”

“Ah.” He returned their hands to the seat between them. “I like the sound of this.”

“Edward and I thought we would suit admirably when we made that agreement four years ago,” she said. “We were and are alike in many ways. But when I saw him again earlier this spring in London after not seeing him for well over a year, I knew immediately that it was impossible, and not only because by then he was the Earl of Heyward and more was expected of him than to marry someone like me. I also knew that he needed someone to brighten his life, to lift the load of duty and responsibility that he shouldered without complaint after his brother died. I could not do that. I cannot be … merry unless someone draws merriment out of me. I have no experience of my own. And then, at the Tresham ball, when you danced with Lady Angeline and Edward and I came to sit at your table during supper, I could see immediately that she admired him and that he was unaccountably concerned about her safety even while he was irritated by her. And I knew that she was just the wife he needed. As I got to know her better, I could see too that he was just the husband for her. She needs steadiness and he needs … joy. And I knew too that I felt a little depressed at the loss of what for four years I had thought I wanted. But I did not want that dream back, or Edward, dearly as I love him. For I realized that I would like some joy too. Or at least a little fun.”

“Have you had fun with me, Eunice?” he asked softly.

She looked sharply at him but let his use of her given name go.

“I have,” she said. “You are fun—intelligent and sharp-minded and witty and irreverent.”

“I sound like a dreadfully dull dog,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, “and you are handsome and … attractive and you kiss well. Not that I have anything with which to compare that kiss, but I would be very surprised if even the most experienced of courtesans would not agree with me. There! Is your vanity satisfied?”

He grinned slowly at her.

“We are here,” he said. “Come and meet my mother. We will warn her, by the way, that she may expect two more guests, though they have been unfortunately delayed at the Peacock by carriage troubles and may well decide to return to Hallings once the carriage is roadworthy again.”

“Oh,” Eunice said with a sigh. “I have told more lies in the last few days than I have in my whole life before. After today there will be no more.”

And then he escorted her into the grand house of Norton Park and up the winding staircase to the drawing room, where Lady Windrow was waiting to greet them, a warm smile on her fragile face.

“Charles,” she said as he enclosed her in his arms and kissed her cheek and wished her a happy birthday. “I told you when you went to Hallings that you must not dream of coming all the way back here just for my birthday. Ten miles is a long way.”

“How could I not come for such an occasion, Mama?” he said. “Have I ever missed being with you on your birthday?”

He turned, one arm about her waist, and her eyes rested upon Eunice, who curtsied.

“Besides,” he said, “I had another reason for coming, one that will delight you, I believe, as you have been pestering me for years. I wanted you to meet Miss Goddard, the lady I plan one day soon, when the setting and the atmosphere are quite perfect, to ask to marry me. It is time, you see, to do that most dreaded of all things to men, though suddenly it does not seem so dreadful after all. Indeed, it seems infinitely desirable. It is time to settle down.”

He smiled sleepily at Eunice, who gazed briefly and reproachfully back at him, her eyebrows raised, her cheeks pink, before wishing his mother a happy birthday.