Slightly Dangerous (31 page)

“And Rachel’s wrath is a terrible thing.” Alleyne raised their clasped hands to his lips and kissed hers.

“Oh, bravo, Rachel!” Freyja exclaimed. “I always admire anyone who has the courage to scold us Bedwyns.”

“And you are absolutely right, Rachel!” Morgan cried. “I have never told anyone this before except Gervase. It seemed disloyal somehow, and at the time I must admit I was horrified. After the memorial service we held for Alleyne when we thought he was dead, I went to the library at Bedwyn House just for the comfort of being in the same room as Wulf. Luckily he did not see me. He was standing before the fireplace weeping.”

There was an appalled, rather embarrassed silence.

“I do not suppose,
chérie,
” Gervase said, “that you would endear yourself to Bewcastle if he knew you were telling such a dreadful story about him.”

“Of course Wulfric loves,” Eve said. “He had a hand in bringing Aidan and me together even though we were already married when he did it. And I believe he did as much for Freyja and Joshua and for Rannulf and Judith as well. It would be easy enough to say he did it simply for the family name and pride, but I have long believed he really cares. And what other possible motive than love could he have had for coming to Oxfordshire to make sure I did not lose Davy and Becky when my cousin would have taken them from me? But do you
really
think Mrs. Derrick is the woman to break down all of Wulfric’s defenses, Rachel?”

Freyja snorted. “Of course she is,” she said unexpectedly. “I cannot understand why we did not all see it sooner. Was he not at one of Lady Renable’s house parties last summer? Mrs. Derrick was probably a guest there herself. And have we not wondered why Wulf would deign to rescue her from the Serpentine disaster when according to all accounts half the fashionable world was there to lend her assistance if he did not? It is quite unlike him to so expose himself to gossip and laughter. And why did he invite her family here for Easter when none of us are aware of any deep friendship he has with any of them except perhaps Lord Mowbury? Why did he invite
us
here? It is usually we who invite ourselves.”

“You are not saying—” Alleyne began.

“And
why,
” Freyja continued, sawing at the air with one hand, “did he line us all up in the hall this afternoon when it was merely Lord Renable’s carriage that had been spotted approaching? We were all mystified at the time.”

“Deuce take it,” Alleyne said, “you
are
saying. Women have marvelous imaginations, I must say. They leap from point A to point D without even a sideways glance at points B and C. You believe Wulf already has a
tendre
for Mrs. Derrick, Free?”

“It is altogether likely,” Rachel said, turning her head to gaze into his eyes.

“Well,” Aidan said briskly, “I believe we are all agreed that Aunt Rochester’s ill-conceived notion that Amy Hutchinson and Wulf would suit needs to be foiled—for both their sakes. And, if putting Mrs. Derrick more in his way will accomplish that purpose, then I am all for it. If he should also happen to fall head over ears for her—though I do believe
that
is something of a stretch even for the most active of imaginations—then I am very prepared to buy Eve new clothes for the wedding.”

“What I think,” Joshua said, “for what it is worth when I am talking to Bedwyns and know perfectly well that they invariably do the opposite of what one suggests—what
I
think is that we should leave well enough alone. I cannot think of anything much more ludicrous than a band of well-meaning Bedwyns plotting together to save Wulfric—
Bewcastle,
for the love of God!—from one unlikely marriage prospect only to thrust another even more unlikely one in his way.”

“My point exactly.” Gervase laughed.

“Ludicrous?” Freyja said haughtily. “You are accusing us of being
ludicrous,
Joshua? And you think it
funny,
Gervase?”

Aidan got to his feet.

“I believe,” he said, “it is time we all went to bed. There is only one thing more alarming than matchmaking Bedwyns and that is squabbling Bedwyns. Fists will be flying next, and there
are
two or three ladies present.”

“Two or—” Freyja jumped to her feet, her eyes sparking.

But Aidan held up one hand and silence fell. He could be almost as formidable as Wulfric when he chose, and he had the added advantage of having been a cavalry colonel for several years.

“You know very well, Freyja,” he said, “that in any fight yours would be the first fists flying. To bed now, and we will see what tomorrow brings. My guess is that Wulf will foil Aunt Rochester
and
avoid Mrs. Derrick without any effort whatsoever more strenuous than the raising of an eyebrow and without the slightest assistance on our part.” He offered his arm to Eve.

“
Some
people,” Freyja said with a toss of her head, “always have to have the last word.”

Rannulf and Alleyne looked pointedly at each other and then at her, their lips pressed tightly together.

Joshua grinned and wrapped one arm about her waist.

W
HILE THE
B
EDWYNS
were meeting in the drawing room, Christine was entertaining Hermione in her bedchamber. Her sister-in-law had caught up with her on the stairs as they all retired for the night and had then invited herself inside.

Christine looked warily at her and offered her a chair while she went to perch on the side of the bed.

“Oh,” Hermione said, looking about, “what a perfectly delightful room. It must be one of the largest and best bedchambers in the house.”

Christine had not considered that. She had assumed that all the upper rooms were similarly grand. But Hermione did not pursue the topic. She sat down on the chair and regarded her sister-in-law gravely.

“Christine,” she said, “Basil and I have talked and wondered about this invitation. Our acquaintance with his grace is really quite slight, and he has never been known to host a house party at Lindsey Hall. Why us? It is true that he has a friendship with Hector, but Melanie and Bertie are no more his close associates than we are, despite the fact that Hector brought him to Schofield last summer. No—we have been drawn to the conclusion that
you
are the reason for our being invited here.”

“Me?” Christine said.

“Strange and almost incredible as it seems,” Hermione said, “I do believe—and Basil agrees with me—that his grace is
infatuated
with you.”

Christine bit her lower lip.

“It is clear,” Hermione continued, “that the Marchioness of Rochester has other plans for him, and she has considerable influence. And his family would never countenance such a match, you know. Neither would he. If he
is
infatuated, he will offer only dalliance.”

“You are trying to warn me, then,” Christine asked, “not to get my hopes too high?”

Her sister-in-law’s brows snapped together.

“I am
asking
you,” she said, “not to make a fool of yourself, Christine—or of us. You will never be the Duchess of Bewcastle—the very idea is absurd. But if you get up to any of your usual tricks, your ambition will soon be quite obvious to the marchioness and all of his grace’s brothers and sisters and the embarrassing vulgarity of it will reflect upon us.”

“My usual tricks.” Christine felt herself grow cold.

“Pretending to fall out of a tree when he was close by,” Hermione said, her voice bitter and unhappy. “Pretending to fall accidentally into the Serpentine when he just happened to be riding by. Just happening to be sitting in the laburnum alley when he chose to walk there. Pretending to be badly hurt when Hector had merely stepped on your foot and not returning to the ballroom for a whole hour. And attracting the admiration of almost every other gentleman at that house party at the same time. The Earl of Kitredge even proposed marriage to you in London. But you refused him, I hear. Why be a countess when you believe you could be a duchess?”

“I think,” Christine said, “you had better leave, Hermione.”

Her sister-in-law got to her feet and crossed to the door without another word. But it had always been like this, Christine thought suddenly—at least, it had been for the last few years of Oscar’s life and after his death and last summer and again now. They always avoided really speaking with each other.

“Wait!” she said, and Hermione looked back at her over her shoulder.

Christine got up off the bed and crossed to the window. She threw back the curtains, but of course there was nothing to see outside—only fine drops of drizzle on the windowpanes and darkness beyond.

“There was a time,” she said, “when you used to delight in my not-infrequent disasters. You used to tell me that the
ton
was delighted with me despite the laughter I provoked. You told me that laughter was good for the soul and the
ton
. You used to tell me that I had a gift of attraction—that ladies liked me, that gentlemen liked and even admired me because it was safe for them to do so, my being a married lady. Oscar loved me and I loved him, and we really were a happy family. You told me I was the sister you had never had but had always wanted. You were the sister I needed to replace my own, who were far away. What changed? I never understood it. It was like a nightmare from which I could not awake. Suddenly all my social gaffes were embarrassing and humiliating for you all. And suddenly every gentleman with whom I conversed or danced or exchanged smiles was a victim of my flirtatious wiles. And not even just flirtation. Suddenly I acquired a whole string of clandestine lovers. Why did that change happen?”

Hermione was still looking at her over her shoulder. There was a short silence.

“You tell me, Christine,” she said at last. “You tired of Oscar, I suppose. You realized your power to attract larger fish. You had no feeling for him—or us.”

Christine blinked back tears.

“I always loved Oscar,” she said. “Even in the last years, when he became difficult and when he started to gamble too recklessly and lost all his fortune, I never stopped caring for him. I was his
wife
. I never
ever
thought of straying.”

“Well,” Hermione said. “I would like to believe you, Christine. But we both know that is a lie. If it were not, Oscar would still be alive.”

“You
cannot
believe I was guilty on that occasion,” Christine said. “I begged you at the time to ask Justin. Why did you not do so? He could have confirmed my innocence.”

“Of course we asked Justin,” Hermione said wearily. “And of course he protested your innocence—over and over again and with great indignation over the fact that we could doubt you for a moment. But he always did defend you, did he not? No matter what, Justin was always there to be your champion, to deny every charge against you. Justin has always been in love with you, Christine. He would perjure himself to the grave rather than have anyone believe ill of you.”

“I see,” Christine said. “And so I am guilty. His very defenses have made me so. Poor Justin. His efforts on my behalf have always had the opposite effect than the one he intended. You must believe what you will, then. But I can relieve your mind of one concern. I am
not
here out of any ambition to be the Duchess of Bewcastle. I have already refused the position and will refuse again if the offer is renewed. I am perhaps even more sensible than you and Basil of the fact that it would be a match made in hell—for both of us. I am longing for the day when I can go back home and resume the life that has made me happy for almost three years—though I mourned Oscar deeply for the first of those years.”

“Christine.” Unexpectedly Hermione’s eyes too filled with tears. “I
do
wish to believe the best of you now. Basil and I both do. You are Oscar’s widow.”

Christine nodded. There seemed to be nothing to say. Some sort of peace was being offered, she supposed—again.

Hermione left the room without another word, leaving Christine with the unenviable task of trying to get to sleep in a strange bed in a strange house while her conversation with Hermione—
and
her quarrel with the duke—buzzed around endlessly in her brain.

17

T
HEY ALL WENT TO CHURCH THE FOLLOWING MORNING
for the Good Friday service. A few of the older people went by carriage, but most of them walked, since the weather had taken a distinct turn for the better.

Christine walked with Justin. The duke, she noticed, had Miss Hutchinson on his arm, though Lord and Lady Aidan stayed close to them. The Marchioness of Rochester was, of course, promoting a match between the pair. Christine heartily sympathized with Miss Hutchinson, who was both a pretty and a sweet-natured young lady—but no match for the duke.

It was as if Justin sensed her thoughts.

“Poor lady,” he said, nodding in their direction. “I wonder if she realizes that being a duchess comes at a high price. But I daresay her aunt will explain before the nuptials—
if
Bewcastle can be brought to the point, that is.”

Christine did not comment. She did not want to discuss the duke even with her dearest friend—especially after last night. But he continued.

“Lady Falconbridge will certainly understand,” he said. “I daresay she does not really expect that he will marry her anyway. And I suppose his mistress will learn to understand—she will not have much choice, will she, short of leaving his employment, which I daresay is rather lucrative.”

“Justin!” Christine said sharply. “Do you usually speak to ladies about such things?”

He looked instantly contrite. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “But you knew about Lady Falconbridge, and he has had his mistress for so many years that I assumed everyone knew. Foolish of me—you are indeed a lady. But you were the wise one, Chrissie.” He patted her hand on his arm. “You would have none of him. I don’t suppose he liked that.”

“I am going to change the subject
now,
” she said firmly. “Hector tells me he is going on his travels again soon and that you may be going with him. Is that true?”