Allison Lane (15 page)

“How?”

Leaning against the mantel, Randolph stared into the fire.  “Fosdale has already accepted another offer for Cecilia’s hand.  Only the man’s trip to Carlisle prevented the settlements from being signed.”

“So how can he cry compromise?  A lady betrothed has far more leeway than an innocent.”

“Which proves his lack of scruples and the dearth of honor in this house,” growled Randolph.

“But can I blame her if he forced her into staging that scene?”

“He did nothing but agree with her plan.  The idea was entirely hers.  You have no obligation to accept their plot.”  He bit his lip.  “I need to discover her feelings for this other suitor.”

“If she had any, she would not have trapped Symington.”

“Not necessarily.  Whatever Fosdale’s failings, I don’t believe that Cecilia is your typical fortune hunter.  Her goal is entrée into London society.  Elizabeth claims that the girl is obsessed with ridiculous fantasies.  Once we discover the details, we can debunk them and give her such a disgust of you that she will flee this match faster than she promoted it.”

“Will Fosdale allow that?”

“If he doesn’t, I will destroy him.  The man is unworthy of respect.”  He paced for several minutes.  “I have it.  When I reveal my identity, I will admit that we planned this masquerade so I could discern his true character.  The match had been proposed by the previous Fosdale.  Lady Elizabeth seemed everything honorable, but we had reservations about allying the duchy with a man reputed to be a cruel, scheming miser.”

“That’s good.”  Sedge relaxed enough to laugh.  “He will bend over backwards to protect his tie to Whitfield.”

“And find out too late that no tie exists.  I will not allow him to annoy Elizabeth.”

“But what will Elizabeth think of the masquerade?  If she was furious at the idea of a forced wedding, won’t she be more furious to discover that her grandfather arranged a marriage without telling her?”

“I will meet that challenge when and if it arises.  And frankly, I believe her grandfather did propose such a match.  Why else would Whitfield set me up like this?”  He explained about the Chaucer.

“Matchmakers!” Sedge snorted.

“Short of becoming hermits, we can’t escape them,” agreed Randolph.

“Good luck.  So the plan is to prick Cecilia’s fantasies?”

“Right.  I will discover the details when Elizabeth returns, but for now, you had best let everyone know that Symington hates London society.  It’s true enough.”

“Hate is a little strong, I believe.  Disgust is closer to the truth.”

“Let’s not bandy words, Sedge.  For the purposes of deflecting Cecilia, hatred may not be strong enough.”

They continued planning.  Sedge would suffer a relapse that would keep him abed at least until morning.  Hopefully, by then they would have specific information.  If not, Sedge would content himself with contradicting anything Cecilia said.

Randolph escorted Sedge back to his room, staying an hour to make sure Cecilia would not press her claims.  When he left, he dropped his servile facade long enough to order the footman still stationed in the hall to forbid any visitors until Mrs. Hughes brought up the dinner tray.  He should be back by then.

CHAPTER NINE

Randolph paced the schoolroom, pausing to stare out the window on each circuit.  He had chosen this vantage point because it offered a clear view of the path that led to the Wilson farm. 

Learning which path Elizabeth would use had been surprisingly simple, a testament to his odd place in the household.  No one had seemed shocked when he’d showed up in the kitchen.  All had readily talked to him.  Not only did they identify the route to Wilson’s farm, they had revealed that Elizabeth was on foot.  Her horse had survived the accident, but he’d turned up lame and could not be ridden for at least a fortnight.  Fosdale had refused permission to ride another animal.  It was yet another of his petty tyrannies.

So Randolph had positioned himself where he could spot her return.  He needed to discuss the day’s events, and he preferred to be the one who broke the news.  But as the hours passed, he had to wonder if he had missed her.  Had she called somewhere else so she would return by a different route?

He was on the verge of inquiring below stairs again, when she popped up almost beneath him, heading for a side entrance that would bypass the servants’ hall.  He grimaced, for he could not reach the door before her.  But surely she would freshen up before doing anything else.

* * * *

“What are you doing?” demanded Elizabeth.  Mr. Randolph had just walked into her room as if he owned it, locking the door behind him.

He shrugged.  “This is no more compromising than any other meeting we have held.” 

“Of course it is.  You are in my bedroom!”  She considered shooing him into her sitting room next door, but that wouldn’t work, either.  Her desk was littered with papers she dared not let him see. 

She shook her head, flustered by his presence, in part because it seemed so deliciously illicit.  For some reason, this felt far more intimate than the times she had entered his bedchamber to change the dressings on his shoulder.  Warmth stained her cheeks.  Her fingers tingled with the memory of those touches.  She cursed.

But he didn’t notice.  He was looking doubtfully at the decor.  “I would not have guessed you were the chintz sort.”

“I am not.  Mother chose the furnishings.  Fosdale refused to allow a child any say in the matter – this despite that I was sixteen at the time and that Mother had never exhibited a lick of sense.”

“Did she do the same for Cecilia?”

She nodded, grateful for a neutral topic.  “But Cecilia’s tastes have always matched hers.  I am the ungrateful daughter whose lack of sensibility places unbearable burdens on her nerves.”  She stopped the bitterness before she revealed too much, for her mother erroneously believed that Elizabeth’s refusal to espouse her interests – which had resulted in numerous tearful confrontations over the years – had turned Fosdale against them all.  “It was the only time he allowed her to redecorate anything, so she gave me no say in the matter.”

Randolph watched the emotions flit across her face.  His chat with the servants had convinced him that every member of the family was engaged in an endless struggle for identity and power, which undoubtedly contributed to her vow of eternal spinsterhood.  How could he persuade her that marriage need not lead to war?

“Please go before someone discovers you here,” she begged.

“It would change nothing.”  He cut off the expected protest with a wave of his hand.  “Later.  We have more serious business to discuss.”

“We do?”

“Symington had already left his room before I could deliver your warning.”

“Dear Lord!”  She blanched.

“Exactly.  Your sister did not waste any time.  Fosdale found them together in a sitting room.”

“I should have expected her to enlist his help.”  She snapped her mouth shut as if she had not intended to reveal the thought.

“This is no time for polite niceties, Elizabeth,” he said, then ignored her glare at his familiarity.  “My opinion of Lady Cecilia cannot be stated in polite company, and your father is worse.  But that does not reflect on you,” he added, realizing that he was digging his own hole deeper.  “I know you disapprove of forced marriage, so I assume you will help to prevent this one.”

“Of course.”  Confusion swirled in her eyes.

“Thank you.  The best way to effect Symington’s escape is to give Cecilia a disgust of him and convince her that whatever fantasies she harbors can never become fact.  So I must know the exact details.”

“Why work to free Symington when you have made no effort to escape your own coil?” she asked slowly.

He heard the bitterness in her tone.  And another note he could not identify.  “Our situation is entirely different, Elizabeth.  You in no way schemed to trap me.  In fact, I brought about the situation entirely on my own.  And I do not find the idea repellent.” 

“So you say, but honor often prompts gentlemen to lie.”

“What?  No gentleman can hold his head up after perpetrating a lie.”  But the words echoed hollowly in his head, for he could hardly deny that his entire life was a lie just now.  Perhaps she saw a flicker of unease in his eyes, for she shook her head.

“Men lie often,” she claimed.  “Particularly when honor demands that they act against self-interest.  It would be wiser to accept the truth, regardless of honor’s demands.  A forced union is bound to raise bitterness that will influence the relationship for life.”

The words froze something in his chest.  “May we please postpone discussing our own future until later?”

She sighed, but nodded.

“Thank you.  At the moment, I am more concerned about Symington.  I cannot stand by and see him ruined by a pair of greedy schemers.”

“I cannot condone either of them, but how can Symington escape?  I thought no gentleman could cry off a betrothal without destroying his reputation.”

“True, but he suffered a relapse and escaped before he agreed to anything.  Your father believes a betrothal exists, but since Symington neither made an offer nor accepted one, he can honorably refuse.”

“Then where is the problem?”

He clamped his lips together, forcing her to answer the question herself.

“Fosdale will tell everyone that Symington debauched Cecilia, then refused to do the honorable thing.  Even if most people accept Symington’s word, his reputation will suffer.”  Anger flashed in her eyes.

“Exactly.  There are always those who believe the worst about everyone.  So we must force Cecilia to cry off.  You said she had unreasonable ideas about London society.  What exactly did you mean?”

She hesitated.

“Please, Elizabeth?  I know you feel loyal to your sister – and I must share the details with Symington – but I swear they will go no further.  I have no interest in besmirching your family.”  But he
did
have another reason for asking.  Understanding her family’s foibles could shed more light on their internal power struggles, making it easier to overcome her aversion to marriage.  He stifled the thought lest it show on his face.

“Very well.”  She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, then stared out the window.  “To understand Cecilia, you must understand my parents, though I suppose it really goes back to Grandfather.”

“I thought you were close to him.”

“I was.  But he caused most of Fosdale’s dissatisfaction.  And that led to Cecilia’s fantasies.”

“She dreams of escaping Ravenswood?”

“And Cumberland.”  She sighed.  “Grandfather acceded to the title while he was still in school and achieved control of his fortune at five-and-twenty.  He was the first to admit that he was not ready for such responsibility, having fallen in with the macaroni set.”

“That was hardly a crime,” he protested, for Whitfield had belonged to that same group.  Only after she turned to stare did he recall that he was supposed to have no personal interest in this tale.

She resumed watching the storm.  “Perhaps, but his immediate circle of friends spent more time at the French court than in England.  They were dissipated wastrels, interested only in wine, women, and deep gaming.  Few lived to see forty, the rest dying of accident or in affairs of honor.”  She choked on the word.

Randolph stifled another protest, for she was not describing the duke he knew.  “Symington told me that Whitfield was one of your grandfather’s friends,” he said carefully.  “Were both involved in that?”

She nodded, abandoning the view to meet his eye.  “Whitfield held the Wyndport title at the time and as far as I can tell was the most stable gentleman of the group.  Not that it mattered.”

He raised a brow.

“Grandfather – like all gentlemen – had an exaggerated faith in his own abilities.  He considered himself immune to the stupidities other young men committed.  He did not recognize his own foolishness until the night he lost nearly every penny he had inherited to a French
comte
.  That sobered him.  And he did demonstrate a modicum of sense.  Instead of trying to recoup, he returned home.  Wyndport was appalled and also quitted Paris.  I suspect he might have felt a trifle guilty, for it was he who had introduced Grandfather to the
comte
.”

Guilt.  Was that why the duke had pushed this match?  Was he still trying to make up for leading his friend astray?  “Wyndport could hardly be responsible for the losses,” he protested in defense of his grandfather.  “No one forced Fosdale to wager everything he owned.”

“I forgot you are also related to the man, but you need not argue, for I agree.  People are responsible for their own actions.  I know that Wyndport was shocked, but if he felt any responsibility, it was because he learned the lesson without personally paying the price.  He had also been betting heavily, but after Grandfather’s disaster, he gave up gaming.  Or perhaps there was something havey-cavey about the game that he believed he should have spotted.”

“You think someone cheated?”

“How could I know?  Even Grandfather never mentioned such a possibility.  But Wyndport accompanied him back to England and never returned to France.”

Her tale explained much.  Whitfield had a reputation as a puritan and had often lectured about the evils of wagering, especially when combined with heavy drinking.  “How much of his inheritance did Fosdale keep?”

“Ravenswood and a small house in London.  He lost two other estates and all his money.  Selling the house raised enough to keep Ravenswood operating, but its income only supports the estate itself.  He refused to go into debt, so he could never return to Town or even visit one of the spas.  Thus he failed to find a well-dowered wife.  My grandmother was the daughter of a nearby squire.”  She sighed.  “Not that I hold that against her, for she was a wonderful, loving woman.  But Fosdale still feels the sting of what he considers his questionable breeding.”

“Thus his determination to forge connections to a duke.”  His voice was cold.  And not just because of Fosdale’s plots.  What had the man done to Elizabeth?  Only now did he realize that she referred to her father only by title, never acknowledging a blood tie.