The Secret Mistress

Chapter 2

ANGELINE STOOD STARING at the inside of the taproom door, her hands clasped to her bosom.

She did not even know his name. He had gone away before she had a chance to say anything, and he had not spoken to her either. But of course, he was a perfect gentleman. His words and actions had proved that. It would have been improper for him to speak, for they had not been formally introduced and ought not even to have been in a room alone together. She ought not to be here at all.

She did not know who he was. She did not even know whether he was traveling toward London or away from it. It was altogether possible that she would never see him again.

By the time she had noticed the other man striding toward the taproom door earlier, it had been too late to withdraw to her room. So she had stayed where she was, hoping not to be noticed. There was no reason why she should be. None of the stagecoach passengers had noticed her, after all, and she was standing with her back to the room, minding her own business.

When he had spoken—oh, how her heart had leapt with alarm and indignation!—she had pretended not to hear and hoped he would go away. And then another voice had spoken up, and she had realized that there was more than one man in the taproom, that the other man must have been there even before the new arrival.

How dreadfully mortifying!

But his words …

I doubt you know the lady. Calling her sweetheart, then, would be inappropriately impertinent.

So pleasantly, courteously spoken in low, cultured accents.

He had been championing her cause.

Angeline had changed position, cupping her face in her hands in an attempt to keep it hidden from the two gentlemen—she sincerely hoped there were only two. And she had gazed intently at the gateway arch leading out to the street, for the first time willing Tresham not to come just yet. He would probably punch the teeth of both gentlemen straight down their throats, which would be a simple overreaction in the one case and a gross miscarriage of justice in the other. He would then blister her all over, without using anything more lethal than his tongue. His tongue, when he waxed eloquent, could be very lethal.

And then the newcomer had become even more impertinent, and the other one had defended her again. And the newcomer—so typically male—had wanted to make a fight of it.

Angeline had been unable either to disappear or to make herself invisible. Nor could she pretend any longer that what was happening in the room behind her had nothing to do with her. Besides, she had not wanted to ignore the contretemps. Indignation had long ago replaced fright—she did not frighten easily or for long. And besides again, she had wanted to see these two men.

And so she had turned. There were only two, one at each end of the counter, like bookends. Not identical bookends, though. And before either had spoken a word more, she had identified which was which. It was really quite easy.

The one slouched back with casual elegance against the counter, supported on his forearms, his riding boots crossed nonchalantly at the ankles, was the impertinent one. Every line of his tall, athletic body, every garment he wore, spoke of a man who was confident and arrogant and fearless and contemptuous of all who were beneath him in consequence—a number that would of course include all women. His face, beneath a shock of dark red hair, was handsome enough if one discounted the fact that he affected world-weariness by keeping his eyelids half drooped over his eyes.

He was a type she recognized instantly. Her father had been such a man. Tresham was such a man. So was Ferdinand, her other brother. So were all their friends whom she had met. They were often lovable and essentially harmless despite all the silliness. Angeline could never take such men too seriously. She was quite impervious to their charms. She would never even dream of marrying one of them.

The second man was entirely different, even though he was almost as tall as the other and was well and solidly built. He was dressed neatly and fashionably but without any flair or ostentation or any suggestion of dandyism. His brown hair was cut short and neatly styled. His face was neither handsome nor plain. Although he had an elbow on the counter, he was not leaning on it.

He was … an ordinary man. Which was by no means an insult or even a dismissal of his claim to be noticed. Angeline had noticed him. And she was as sure as she could be that he was her defender, while the other was her tormentor.

Her guess was soon proved correct.

I have never felt any burning desire to enforce gentility or simple civility with my fists, he had said. It seems something of a contradiction in terms.

And yet he was not a coward, though that was what the other man accused him of. He would have fought if he had had to. His actions at the end had proved that. Instead of accepting partial victory when the almost-handsome redhead was leaving, he had stepped over to the door to block the man’s exit and insisted quietly and courteously that he apologize.

He would have fought. And though common sense told Angeline that he would very soon have been outsized, outclassed, and out cold if the other man had forced him into it, she would not have wagered against him. Quite the contrary.

How could one not fall instantly in love with such a man, Angeline asked herself as she stared at the door after they had both left. In a few short minutes he had shown himself to be her ideal of manhood. Of gentlemanhood. He seemed perfectly content and comfortable with his ordinariness. He seemed not to feel the need to posture and prove his masculinity at every turn, preferably with his fists, as most men did in Angeline’s admittedly rather limited experience.

He was, in fact, more than ordinary. He was an extraordinary man.

And she had fallen head over ears in love with him.

Indeed, she was going to marry him—despite the fact that she would probably never see him again.

Love would find a way.

With which decidedly muddled form of logic she returned to reality and the distinct possibility that if she remained in the taproom any longer she might well be assailed by the comings and goings of yet more travelers—all undoubtedly male. The room was not, alas, nearly as deserted and private as it had appeared when she came down here. And if Tresham caught her here …

Well … it was best not to put the matter to the test. She would return to her room and listen for his arrival. If he ever came.

The gentleman’s eyes were blue, she remembered as she climbed the stairs. She was certain of it, though she had not seen them from close to. They were not that nondescript sort of gray that often passes for blue. They were as clear as the summer sky. They were his most outstanding feature, in fact.

Oh, she hoped she would see him again.

How could she possibly marry him if she did not?

ALMOST AS SOON as Edward arrived in London, he was besieged by female relatives who adored him and had nothing but his best interests and his future happiness at heart and were determined to have a hand in securing that happiness for him.

They were a plague.

His mother had been staying with her parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Beckingham, for the past few months while she recovered as best she could from the sudden death of her elder son. Edward’s grandparents had now come to town, and his mother, who had traveled with them—in a new carriage that she had found atrociously uncomfortable—had moved into Ailsbury House on Portman Square to be with her younger son, now her only son.

Lorraine, Maurice’s widow, who had retreated to her father’s house in the country following his death, had now returned to town with Susan, her daughter, and had also taken up residence at Ailsbury House, as of course she had every right to do. She still held the title Countess of Heyward, after all, Edward being as yet unmarried. Besides, he had always been fond of Lorraine and sorry for the fact that she had been in an unsatisfactory marriage with his brother. He was more than happy to offer her and his niece the shelter of his own roof for as long as they needed it.

Both of Edward’s sisters were in town for the Season. Alma, the elder, was there with her husband, Augustine Lynd, a prominent government minister, and Melissa, their young daughter. Their two boys were away at school. Juliana was there with her husband, Christopher Gilbert, Viscount Overmyer. They also had three children, all below the age of ten, though Edward often thought that in reality Juliana had four, since Christopher was perennially indisposed with some malady or other and it seemed that no one could nurse him back to health—or rather nurse him on to the next illness—half as well as his wife.

All five ladies—grandmother, mother, two sisters, one sister-in-law—had taken upon themselves the identical project to be accomplished during the course of the Season. They had set their collective hearts and energies upon finding Edward a bride. A bride was necessary, of course. If he were to die without a son, the title and property and fortune would pass to Cousin Alfie—never in his life had Edward ever heard him referred to as Alfred—who lived in the far north of England with his mother and who, all were agreed, was more than a little daft in the head.

It was pointless for Edward to put forward the name of Eunice Goddard at this juncture. She was the daughter of a gentleman, it was true—a Cambridge don whom Edward had greatly admired during his years as a student there—and the niece of Lady Sanford, who had had the good fortune to meet and attach the interest of a wealthy baron at the tender age of seventeen. Eunice might have been considered unexceptionable as the bride of Edward Ailsbury, younger brother of the Earl of Heyward, especially if Maurice and Lorraine had produced a son or two. It would be trickier, though, to convince his female relations that she was the ideal wife of that same Edward Ailsbury now that he was himself the earl.

It would be done eventually, he was confident. Edward, who was not particularly excited at the prospect of marrying anyone this early in life, had decided long ago that when he did marry, it would be to Eunice, with whom he could talk upon any subject on earth and with whom he felt perfectly comfortable. He had even made the suggestion to her one day, when he was about twenty and she nineteen, that when the time came to consider the sober responsibilities of home and family, perhaps they might consider doing it together. Eunice had told him on an earlier occasion that she hated the thought of marrying and would put off doing so as long as she possibly could, though she must marry eventually as her father could not live forever and she would hate to be a burden to her brother. She had liked his suggestion and had agreed to it. They had even shaken hands on it.

Clearly their relationship was not characterized by high romance. Or any romance at all, for that matter. And yet, Edward thought after his arrival in London, he loved Eunice. He loved her more than any other woman he had known, though probably no more than he loved his female relatives, he admitted with incurable honesty.

Dash it, but he was just not a romantic man.

He did not need to be. Eunice was one of his dearest friends, and what better marriage could one make than with one’s dear friend?

He did not really want to marry at all, of course. Not yet anyway. But he had to marry someone. Duty demanded it. And if he must marry, then he would rather it be Eunice than anyone else. Far rather.

He bided his time before mentioning her to his relatives, however. Not that they were unaware of her existence. They knew that both she and her father had been his friends in Cambridge. They knew too that she was in town and that he called upon her within two days of his arrival there.

She greeted him with warm pleasure in her aunt’s parlor, and Lady Sanford, who was instantly alert to the possibility of promoting a match for her niece even more brilliant than her own had been, discovered an almost immediate reason to leave the room, with apologies for doing so and instructions to her niece to entertain Lord Heyward while she was gone.

Edward took both Eunice’s hands in his own as soon as they were alone and carried them one at a time to his lips—an extravagant gesture for him, but then it had been longer than a year since he last saw her.

“Miss Goddard,” he said, “you are in good looks.”

“As are you, Lord Heyward,” she said with grave emphasis upon his name. “Must we be formal, then, now that you are the earl? And must I be reassured with flatteries? Must you?”

He smiled at her and squeezed her hands before releasing them.

“I am happy to see you again, Eunice,” he said. “One frustration of spending the past year at Wimsbury has been my inability to see you and enjoy your conversation.”

“I hope,” she said, “your duties as earl are not proving too burdensome. But I know you will perform them conscientiously.”

“I must take my seat in the House of Lords,” he told her. “I will enjoy listening to the debates, even participating in them. The one thing I do not look forward to, though, is delivering my maiden speech.”

“But you will do brilliantly at it,” she assured him, resuming her seat so that he could take his. “You have a superior mind and have cultivated it with discerning reading. Have you chosen a topic?”

“Not yet,” he said with a sigh. “But I will soon. I so wish to say something of lasting significance.”

“You will,” she said. “I trust your mother is well? Losing a son must be the very worst bereavement any woman can be called upon to suffer. Or any man for that matter.”

“She was close to collapse for several months,” he said, “and still suffers. She has found a new purpose in life, though. She has set herself the task of finding me a suitable bride.”

He smiled ruefully at her.

She did not smile back.

“It is commendable in her,” she said. “You must marry soon, of course. It is your duty.”

Both her facial expression and her posture were unreadable. She appeared relaxed. Her hands, clasped in her lap, were neither white-knuckled nor fidgeting.

“But I have already made my choice,” he told her.

She looked steadily at him for a few moments.

“If you are referring to me,” she said, “and a very informal agreement we made all of four years ago when both of us were minors, then you must not regard it as any sort of obligation whatsoever, Edward. I would not be an eligible bride for an earl.”

“Why not?” he asked her.

“Perhaps eligible is not the right word,” she said after giving the matter some thought. “I am a lady. I am fit to be the bride of any gentleman, no matter what his rank and fortune. Desirable would be a better word. Or brilliant. I would not be a brilliant match for you, Edward.”

“I do not ask for brilliance,” he said.

“No,” she agreed. “You are not so swayed by outer trappings. But you have responsibilities to more than just yourself now. You must marry, and you must marry well. You need more than just any bride. You need a countess. Your mother and your sisters will know who is most eligible.”

“And my grandmother and sister-in-law?” he said.

“Oh, dear,” she said with warm sympathy. “Them too? Poor Edward, they must seem like an army. But yes, together they will find just the right bride for you.”

“For me?” he asked her. “Or for the Earl of Heyward?”

She regarded him gravely.

“When your brother died,” she said, “and you became the Earl of Heyward, you lost the right to think only of yourself and your own comfort, Edward. You are the earl. But of course I tell you only what you already know and accept. You are not a man to shirk your responsibilities. It is one thing I have always admired in you. You must not now feel obligated by a sort of agreement you made with me long ago when the circumstances of your life were very different from what they are now.”

“And you?” he said. “What are your feelings in all this, Eunice?”

“If you remember,” she said, “I told you four years ago that I had no intention of marrying until age makes my spinsterhood somewhat of a burden to both me and my brother. That time has not come yet. I am only twenty-three. Let us officially release each other from any obligation that agreement laid upon us, then, even if it is only guilt and fear of hurting each other.”

“Is that what you really want for yourself?” he asked. “Complete freedom? Even from me?”

“Life,” she said, “is not always or even often about getting what we want, Edward. Far more often it is about doing our duty, doing what is right, taking other people into consideration.”

He sighed aloud. She had neatly avoided answering his question, he noticed. Or had she? Perhaps she was embarrassed by that long-ago agreement. Perhaps she was glad of the excuse to bring it to an end. And perhaps not. Perhaps she was being noble. Or merely sensible.

And what about him? How did her willingness to release him make him feel? Disappointed? Relieved? He really was not sure. There was perhaps a bit of both.

“You are released, then,” he said. “And so am I, if you insist upon it. But I will not give up our friendship, Eunice. And I will not give up the possibility that at some future time … Well, I will not burden you with that.”

“Your thoughts, your opinions will never be a burden to me, Edward,” she said. “I will always consider you a very dear friend.”

He had to leave it at that. But he felt somewhat depressed as he took his leave—depression more than relief. For he had already accepted the necessity of marrying soon, and if he must now give up the comfortable thought that it would be Eunice he would marry, there was a distinctly uncomfortable void where she had been. If not Eunice, then whom? Was he going to have to meet and woo a stranger and marry her and get her with child? It was a rhetorical question, of course. That was exactly what he must do. It was one of his two reasons for leaving behind the peace and safety of Wimsbury Abbey for London. London in the spring was the great marriage mart, and he had come to shop.

Unless Eunice could be persuaded to change her mind. She had avoided his question about her personal feelings on being set free of their agreement. Perhaps she was secretly hoping that he would refuse to be set free.

It did not take long for the family committee to compile an alarmingly long list of marital possibilities for him, though it took even less time for them to whittle it down to a few probabilities and then to one overwhelming and unanimous favorite.

Lady Angeline Dudley.

Everything about her made her supremely eligible.

She was about to make her come-out. Her come-out ball was to be held less than one week hence, in fact—on the evening of the very day appointed for Edward’s maiden speech in the Upper House. She was the daughter and sister of a duke, and her fortune was said to be astronomical. She had lived a sheltered life in the country under the tutelage of an assortment of the finest governesses money could buy. She was at the very top of everyone’s list of eligible hopefuls this Season and would be snapped up within weeks or even days of her first appearance on the marriage mart.

For Edward there was only one impediment—and it was a huge one. Lady Angeline Dudley just happened to be the sister of the Duke of Tresham.

Of course, he admitted to himself, she could hardly be blamed for the wildness and dissipations of her brother. Or for those of her late father. Or for the scandalous reputation her mother had enjoyed before her untimely death a couple of years or so ago.

Indeed, it might be altogether kinder to pity the girl.

Either way, he soon found himself committed to firing at least the opening volley in what his family hoped would be a rapid and successful courtship campaign. Lorraine took it upon herself to speak to Lady Palmer, with whom she had an acquaintance. Lady Palmer was Lady Angeline Dudley’s cousin and her sponsor for the all-important come-out Season. The outcome of the meeting was that Edward was engaged to lead Lady Angeline Dudley into the first set of dances at her come-out ball—arguably the most important set of dances in her life.

Lorraine’s initiative was accorded the heartfelt approval of the rest of the committee. Indeed, Edward even heard—and carefully ignored—mention being made of St. George’s, Hanover Square, as the only truly proper setting for a marriage of such social magnitude. The comment came in the voice of his maternal grandmother.

Being accepted to dance that opening set with Lady Angeline Dudley was a huge honor for Edward. It was no less an honor for her, of course. He was one of the most eligible bachelors on the market this year—and he did not doubt that the whole of the beau monde was fully aware that he was actively in search of a bride.

It was all deucedly unnerving.

Just a year or so ago he might have attended any and every ton ball without anyone’s remembering afterward if he had even been there. Being a second son made one blessedly invisible.

He wondered what Lady Angeline Dudley looked like. And what she was like as a person. But it seemed he was destined to find out soon enough. He was forced to go through the excruciatingly embarrassing formality of applying to Tresham himself for that all-important set with his sister—Tresham was back in town, alas. And of course permission was granted, even though he had been forced to endure a long, inscrutable stare from Tresham’s black eyes before being informed that if Lady Palmer deemed Heyward an unexceptionable partner for Lady Angeline, then who was he to argue?

Lord! What would it be like, Edward could not help wondering, if he ever had to apply to the duke for permission to marry the sister? It did not bear thinking of, though he believed he had acquitted himself well enough on this occasion by staring back at Tresham with equal steadiness of eye.

All of Edward’s female relatives were fairly twittering with delight when the matter became official. And it was not just the ladies. Augustine Lynd began cracking jokes about leg shackles and braying loudly over his own wit. And Overmyer began hoping that his gout—which was in his head more than it was in his legs, in Edward’s inexpert and unkind medical opinion—would allow him to attend the ball at Dudley House so that he could witness the first fateful meeting between his brother-in-law and his future countess.

It was a relief to Edward to discover during a chance meeting on Oxford Street that Lady Sanford and Eunice were also to attend the ball, even though Eunice despised the frivolities of most social entertainments and was going only because she did not want to disappoint her aunt. Perhaps she would dance a set with him, Edward thought, even though he hated to dance. Even though he could not dance, in fact. His right leg and foot might look like a right leg and foot, but in reality they were a left leg and foot in disguise. Or so it always seemed when he attempted to perform the intricate steps of any dance yet invented.

Perhaps Eunice would sit out a set with him, then, or stroll in the garden outside with him if it was a pleasant evening. She would not mind having to forgo the pleasure of tripping the light fantastic for half an hour.

Meanwhile he hired a secretary to help him with all the work of being an earl in London with an estate in Shropshire still to run in absentia. And he applied all his energies to composing a maiden speech that would render all the other peers of the realm speechless with admiration when it was delivered in the House of Lords.

He started to suffer from insomnia and sudden cold sweats and clammy palms.