Once Upon a Wager (26 page)

The bell rang, announcing the call to chambers. He crossed from the antechamber where he had been making his final preparations into the hall of the Lords. The other members were streaming through the tall oak doorways lining the imposing room, and he could see Lord Fitzsimmons already seated beside the podium at which they would speak. Alec smiled his greeting. It was not returned.

Fitzsimmons had been noticeably taciturn of late. Hostile, really. Since the night of the Hertford ball, just four days ago, they'd barely exchanged a handful of words. Alec had paid a call to Fitzsimmons House the day after the party, knowing he needed to speak about the change in his intentions. He'd been told the family was not at home to visitors. The same excuse had been given the next morning, and the morning after that.

He took his seat beside the podium, trying to quell a sudden fit of nerves. The members took their spots along the benches flanking either side, and a hush fell over the room. The clerk indicated that he should stand. Rising, Alec laid his notes down on the podium, looked about, and began.

He could hear the emotion in his own voice. He'd known hundreds of the men he spoke about personally, had watched their lives bleed out on the battlefields of Portugal and Spain. Outlining the most salient points of the bill, he called for increased wages to those who'd fought in more than one campaign, support at home for those who'd lost their ability to work, and pensions for the families left behind when soldiers lost their lives. When he finished, there was a chorus of huzzahs and several loud grunts of approval. There were also voices raised in dissent, but so far, they were polite. The House of Lords was not above a ruckus, and the fact that the members were still congenial was a positive sign. He took his seat. Lord Fitzsimmons rose and walked to the podium. At the last minute, the old lord turned toward him and smiled.

Alec knew then something was desperately wrong. The smile was gleeful in its malice. Fitzsimmons cleared his throat, and began. “Lord Dorset speaks eloquently about the soldiers' bill, and the legislation itself has my passionate support. It addresses concerns that deserve our attention.” Alec breathed a sigh of relief. He was merely jittery, it seemed, and overly anxious.

“However,” Lord Fitzsimmons continued, pausing to great effect, “I cannot vote in its favor so long as Lord Dorset remains as its sponsor. I've learned things in the past several days about his character that bring shame not only to this body, but also to the memory of his honorable father.”

Alec had not misread that smile after all. What could Fitzsimmons be talking about?

“There are two issues in particular that need to be referenced. With the first, I shall remain vague, as it involves a lady, and I only mention this because it underscores the depths that Dorset seems willing to plumb.”

Alec's head was spinning. He'd done nothing to shame Jane. They had never even held hands.

“I have it on good authority that when Lord Dorset's interest in a girl of a very tender age was denied by her older brother, Lord Dorset suggested a horse race. The race ended with the death of the brother, under suspicious circumstances not explained to this day.”

There was a collective gasp in the chamber, but surely none sounded louder than Alec's own. Who could have so horribly misrepresented the truth?

Fitzsimmons was hardly done. “This next charge I do not make lightly. As most of you know, I'm privy to certain secrets about our defensive efforts abroad.” Several of the lords nodded their assent. “Lord Carstairs has been called the hero of Badajoz, but I learned recently that nothing could be farther from reality.”

Fitzsimmons was crucifying his character! Already, he could feel the censorious eyes of a number of men upon him.

“Following Badajoz, dispatches from the battlefield show that several wild, undisciplined men—soldiers of the lowest rank and morality—sneaked into the town itself, committing the worst sorts of depravity.

“You'll recall our efforts in that city defended the Spanish natives of Badajoz. But these vicious beasts raped helpless women and, in some cases, children. They killed defenseless men. Hundreds were slaughtered.”

The lords shouted their outrage as bile rose in Alec's throat. There'd been a similar instance at the battle of Ciudad Rodrigo, when a few mongrels dishonored the whole of the army with their actions. Wellington had dealt with them summarily. They'd paid for their sins with their lives. But he had never heard any of this about Badajoz. “My lords, please,” Fitzsimmons called out, waving his hands to calm the chamber. “Their behavior was appalling, but we must remember that brutish hordes always look to a man of authority to lead them. In this instance, they were led by none other than Alec Carstairs. Lord Dorset is not the hero of Badajoz. He is the butcher.”

The room erupted with angry shouts as Alec leapt to his feet. “I deny these charges in the strongest possible terms, Lord Fitzsimmons. I demand to know the source of these lies!”

Fitzsimmons turned, his hand pointed accusingly. “You have been identified by a man who was there, an honorable soldier who watched in horror as you sneaked your band of men into Badajoz. Just back from the front lines, he has only now been able to come forward with his story. My lords, I present Corporal Damien Digby.”

And out he came from a nearby doorway, a figure from the past with an elaborate mustache now, his left cheek neatly bisected by a long, thin scar. Dressed in the formal uniform of the 10th Royal Hussars, Digby gave every appearance of the loyal soldier, bowing to the lords at his left and his right as he approached the podium. “I know this man,” Alec cried out. “He's a scoundrel.”

Digby pretended he had not heard him. He merely raised his voice and said, “What Lord Fitzsimmons says is true. I was there to witness Lord Dorset's shocking misdeeds at Badajoz.”

“If any of this happened,” Alec insisted, “I was certainly no part of it. I learned of my father's death following that battle. I was sent home by Wellington to report on the victory at Whitehall.”

“But not before the crimes took place,” Digby scoffed. “Not before your grief turned to rage.”

Alec lunged, knocking Digby from his feet, thrusting his forearm against the bastard's neck, pushing with all his might. Fury consumed him, and only from a distance could he hear the shouts of others as several members tried to pull him away. He struggled against them until he heard Marworth's voice above the fray. “Dorset, this is no way to fight slanderous charges.”

God, he was brawling on the floor of the House of Lords! He stopped struggling, and the men slowly released their hold. Digby pulled away, loathing in his eyes. “You see the sort of violence he is capable of.”

Alec turned to the assembled lords, breathing heavily. “I apologize for my behavior, but I swear not a thing he says is the truth.”

Lord Fitzsimmons stepped forward then. “You are no gentleman, Dorset. I call for a vote of censure against you. You should be barred from this chamber. You do it no credit.”

“Lord Dorset deserves the opportunity to clear his name,” Marworth said. “He has the right to defend himself. Why should we believe a stranger when we all know that Dorset is an honorable man?”

“Because Corporal Digby was there,” Fitzsimmons replied. “Because I am vouching for his honesty. I've served in this chamber for more than forty years, and I say to the lords who are gathered here, do not confuse Dorset with his father. On this day, the eighth Earl of Dorset would turn from his son in disgust.”

How had everything spun so wildly out of control? How could Alec begin to defend his name, his honor? “I will voluntarily leave this chamber while I fight these accusations,” Alec said, struggling to calm himself, to think clearly. “I will recuse myself from the soldiers' bill. But I beg you to consider it carefully, now that it stands with Lord Fitzsimmons as its sponsor.” He straightened his clothing in a halfhearted effort to make himself more presentable, and strode out of the chamber.

• • •

Alec wandered aimlessly into the sunshine. When he'd taken off his House robes, he'd felt like he was divesting himself of the last shreds of his decency. He climbed into his carriage, his driver surprised to see him so soon. The debate had been expected to take hours. Instead, it had taken less than thirty minutes to destroy so much he'd worked for, and everything he'd tried to be. Before nightfall, the first whispers would be traded at ton dinner parties, and over cards and dice at London's clubs. It would be all over the papers tomorrow. What if he couldn't prove his innocence? After learning of his father's death in Badajoz, he'd gone alone to his tent. He'd written a letter to Annabelle, one of the many that had never been sent. But he'd spoken to no one. He'd not met with Wellington until the following day. He had no way to account for the hours in between.

What would happen to the legacy his father had so meticulously crafted? The Carstairs name had always commanded respect. Would it now be linked with savagery? Fitzsimmons was right about one thing. Today, his father would turn away from him in disgust. And, God, his mother! She would be devastated by the accusations against him. Only her unimpeachable reputation would shield her from the worst of the condemnation.

But not Annabelle. His father had insisted she was the sort to invite scandal. How ironic that his own son had proved to be the contagion. Alec felt as if his heart had cracked open, spilling out his hopes and dreams. All of his feelings for her … they were suddenly irrelevant, because he could not bear it if an association with him harmed her in any way.

She couldn't be seen with him. Not now. And very likely not ever.

• • •

The letter came by way of a special messenger from Dorset House, and Annabelle smiled when she saw it was addressed to her in Alec's hand. His bill was being debated today, and surely the note carried good news.

Even though he'd spent the past several days caught up in last-minute negotiations, Alec had paid her a call each afternoon. The day after the Hertford ball, he'd stopped at Marchmain House, although he'd been annoyed to share her company with the half-dozen other gentlemen in attendance. As Aunt Sophia once said, there was something marvelously invigorating about jealousy.

Afterward, they had gone walking in Regent's Park, and as they'd strolled together, her arm nestled in his, Annabelle had felt a wave of longing for the years they had missed. When he'd kissed her surreptitiously in the corridors of Marchmain House, she'd felt a very different sort of longing.

Somehow, it was easy to speak with him about the loneliness she'd felt since Gareth's death, about her mother's tragic decline, and about her fears for her father. Alec shared the suffering that he'd seen during the war. He talked about his fears that he'd prove unworthy of his father's dreams, and about the burden they sometimes carried.

All the while, Annabelle wondered if he could tell that she'd fallen in love with him all over again.

She thanked the messenger, tucked the missive beneath her arm, and hurried through the house to her favorite garden. She ran to the marble bench beneath the ornamental tree in the corner, sat down in a puff of skirts, and separated the sealing wax from the letter. Opening it eagerly, she scanned its contents, only to be shocked and then horrified by what she read.

It was impossible anyone could believe Damien Digby, who was at best a coward. Alec was a gentleman. Not because of his title, but because of his character. Yet he'd asked her to stay away from him, as if he were a toxin or a disease that might be catching. He worried the ensuing scandal would engulf her.

If Alec thought she would stand idly by while a cretin from the past spread lies, he was mistaken. She'd dealt with ostracism before, and she knew how debilitating it could be to feel alone and unwanted. She would not let him suffer that alone. She would trumpet his innocence to anyone who'd listen.

“You must have been shocked by the revelations, Miss Layton!” Lady Fairbanks exclaimed, fanning herself so vigorously that the plum-colored feathers adorning her turban threatened to dislodge themselves. “At that lovely picnic on the heath, he was so handsome and distinguished. To think we dined with a murderer in our midst!”

“Lady Fairbanks, surely you can't believe Lord Dorset is guilty of these charges,” Annabelle said, defending Alec for what was surely the tenth time in as many minutes. From the moment they'd arrived at the Danforth musicale, she and Aunt Sophia had been surrounded. Everyone knew the Carstairs family was helping to sponsor her this season, which meant they were at the center of the greatest scandal in a generation.

“But Miss Layton, Lord Fitzsimmons himself stands as the accuser!” Miss Traemore cried. “And it is all over the papers.
The Times
is calling it ‘The Great Unmasking.' To think he fooled us all.”

“Lord Fitzsimmons is mistaken,” she replied, trying to remain calm. If she gave into her frustration, she would start slapping people, and that wouldn't sway anyone.

“
The Times
says he's the most hated man in all of London, beating out even the prince regent,” Miss Traemore continued.

“The regent, even,” Percy Billingsly said, shaking his head. “Can you imagine?”

“I grew up near Lord Dorset in Nuneaton,” Annabelle said forcefully. “I've known him all of my life. He could never have done the things that have been alleged.”

That declaration, however, merely recalled the other crime Alec had been accused of. The one the ton seemed to consider the greater sin, because it had supposedly been perpetrated against one of their own. And rumors had been running wild.

“Did you know the brave young lord he killed?” Lady Fairbanks asked. “Or the girl he left for dead? I like to imagine that she walks among us even now, waiting for revenge. But of course, she was horribly maimed, and I can't think of anyone with nasty scars in full view. Perhaps she wears a veil?”