The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (30 page)

Glaring, Lucien tightened his jaw, saying
nothing. Clearly, the man had built up a great many resentments,
which wouldn’t matter if not for one thing: He knew of Lucien’s
true motives for marrying Victoria. Lucien did not know how Chatham
had divined such information, but he had. And with the younger lord
eager to stir trouble, how long would it be before the entire ton
learned the truth? How long before Victoria was made a
laughingstock again, the object of pity and scorn? Because of him.
He could not allow it. Such a result might have once seemed
acceptable. But no longer—not when he could do something about
it.

“Then, by all means, Chatham,” he said
darkly. “Let us settle our differences. Tomorrow. Gentleman
Jackson’s.”

“To what end?”

Lucien smiled. “A mutual understanding.
Between gentlemen.”

Chatham crossed his arms, appearing
skeptical. “A wager.”

“Aye,” he replied softly. “For the victor, a
guarantee of silence. He need never fear certain, shall we say,
unfortunate
information will be shared by his opponent.”

“And the loser?”

“Shall take his chances.”

Lucien knew it was a gamble, this offer.
While he could easily defeat Chatham in his current weakened state,
trusting the man to keep his word after the fact was more than a
risk—many would believe it foolhardy. Tannenbrook had said that
very thing when Lucien had posed the idea. But James did not know
Chatham the way Lucien did. The thin, pale shell known as the
future Marquess of Rutherford was a sham, a carefully constructed
lie born of misery and self-inflicted wounds. He should know—he’d
been lost himself, once. The real man, the one Lucien remembered,
was a bit wild, but fundamentally decent. If a thread of that man
remained, and Lucien could reach him, then the agreement would
hold. He hoped.

“Well,” Chatham said after a long pause.
“Never let it be said I passed up an opportunity to beat you
senseless. Gentleman Jackson’s it is.”

Lucien nodded, hearing the clop of hooves as
their horses were led out of the mews behind the club. For a
moment, seeing Chatham’s sardonic expression, he doubted the wisdom
of this plan. Perhaps he was wrong, and the viscount really was too
far gone. But, then, Chatham dropped his gaze briefly, and when it
returned, his eyes were serious. It was like looking at a ghost,
seeing the Ben he remembered for the first time in a decade. “You
should do whatever it takes to keep her, you know. Not that I care.
But she seems a good sort.”

Swallowing hard at the unexpected statement
from an even more unexpected source, Lucien turned away from his
old friend. Not because the lad from the stables approached with
his horse. Not even because Chatham was wrong. The problem was he
was right. But it was far too late.

*~*~*

Chapter Twenty-Four

“
A little off the chin, if you please. Devotion
to detail is laudable, but I see no reason to frighten future
generations.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Sir
Thomas Lawrence upon viewing her son’s commissioned portrait for
the first time.

It was entirely unacceptable.

Hands on hips, Victoria stepped back from the
canvas and glared at the washed-out, translucent blue of Lucien’s
waistcoat. Blast it, she
needed
her ultramarine pigment from
the case that was still stored at Clyde-Lacey House. It was
terribly expensive, prepared for her by a famed colorist who also
served Sir Thomas Lawrence; otherwise, she would simply purchase
more.

I may have to anyway,
she thought,
if things continue as they have been
. Harrison still had not
answered the letters she’d sent just after the wedding, one of
which requested her supplies be delivered to Wyatt House. And it
appeared Lucien was determined to follow through on his bid for
revenge, even though his expression had been tormented when she had
all but begged him to reconsider.
Do you care for me at all?
she wondered, gazing at the storm-cloud eyes she had painted with
careful, adoring strokes.
Do you? For, I love you with
everything inside me. It seems you might feel the same, but you
won’t say it. And part of you still hides from me.

She sighed. Those shadowy unknowns had made
their way into the painting. They were there in the slight furrow
of his brow, the flash of light in his eyes.

So many questions.

One thing, however, had become clear in the
week since the Rutherford rout. Within the ton, their marriage was
now regarded as a true love match, the object of admiration if not
outright envy by all but the highest sticklers. Invitations had
poured in at an ever-increasing rate. Furthermore, the vicious
rumors regarding an association between Lucien and Mrs. Knightley
had been neatly quashed by Lady Wallingham at one of her recent
luncheons.

It was good to have a dragon on one’s side,
she supposed. Just yesterday, a note from Lady Wallingham had
suggested Lady Gattingford was considering hosting an end-of-season
ball and inviting Victoria and Lucien. It seemed the project of
neutralizing the scandal before most of the ton left London was a
rousing success.

Soon, the scandal would no longer pose a
threat, and Lucien would have nothing left to hold over her.
Perhaps then her choices would prove easier.
Is that really
what’s stopping you?
a voice whispered in her mind.

Bothersome voice. Go away.

You are allowing him to manage you the way
he would a servant.

I can wait until after we have left London
and the scandal is behind us.

You are afraid to lose him. But if you allow
this to go on much longer, you will lose your brother. And perhaps
yourself.

Standing motionless, she stared yet saw
nothing, only heard the ring of truth in the words streaming
through her head. Suddenly, her acquiescence to his demand seemed
less like the sensible, safe path and more like cowardice. She had
given Lucien his way, and it was destroying what little chance they
had of making their marriage more than the devil’s bargain it had
been at the beginning.

She eyed the unfinished portrait.
At the
very least, you must have your paints. This simply will not
do.

He deserved better.

And so did she.

Removing her apron and folding it neatly, she
placed it on the table behind her, then carefully draped a cloth
over the unfinished canvas.

“Time enough for you later,” she murmured to
the portrait. “Once I retrieve my ultramarine.”

After donning a lilac-hued, velvet spencer
and matching bonnet, she hurried downstairs and found Billings
tidying the sideboard in the morning room. Watery light shone
through the windows, reflecting off the butler’s white head.

“Billings,” she said loudly from the
doorway.

He turned. “Yes, my lady?”

“Could you please have the carriage brought
’round?”

“Certainly, my lady. Might I inquire as to
your destination?”

Tugging on a pair of gray kid gloves, she
answered, “Berkeley Square. I must retrieve some painting supplies
from Clyde-Lacey House.”

Silence followed her response. She glanced up
at Billings’ stooped form, surprised to see him frozen in place,
much like a stag staring down a hunter.
Well,
she thought
upon examining his wrinkled countenance,
perhaps more akin to a
hedgehog sighted by an owl.
He appeared to be frightened into
stillness, his brows lowered in consternation.

“Billings?”

He met her gaze.

“The carriage?”

He pressed his lips together briefly as
though wishing to say something, but he remained motionless next to
the sideboard.

Victoria did not relish reprimanding
servants. She much preferred guiding them through praise and high
expectation. But every now and then, Billings used his poor hearing
as an excuse to ignore her, often when she asked after
correspondence from her brothers or when she desired to use the
carriage. She suspected Lucien had something to do with it, but the
servants of Wyatt House never spoke a word against their
employer.

She approached Billings, coming within two
feet of him so she could be heard without shouting. She would not
wish any of the other servants to witness her set-down of the
butler. He needed to command respect in the household to maintain
his authority.

But, honestly, enough was enough. It was well
past time she wielded some authority of her own.

“Billings, I must say, it is extraordinary
that you carry on your work in so competent a fashion, given these
moments when you clearly have a great deal of trouble
hearing
me.”

The man’s spine stiffened and he grimaced.
“Madam, I …”

“I
said,
” she continued crisply, “I
would like you to have the carriage brought ’round to the front, as
I will be visiting my brother’s home today. Please do so now.”

Several seconds of uncomfortable silence
followed this pointed command, before he reluctantly replied, “My
lady, if it were in my power to comply with your request, I would
do so immediately. However, I cannot. I apologize most
sincerely.”

She shook her head and frowned, the
beginnings of anger stirring to life. “This is preposterous. Of
course it is within your power. Simply tell the coachman I have
need of the carriage. What is so impossible about that?”

Billings winced at her snappish tone and
cleared his throat. “Perhaps if my lady were to choose another
destination …?”

“Why should that make any difference?”

Silence. While the man’s face remained stony,
his eyes were filled with apology and something else. Something
that looked very much like pity.

Anger bloomed full-force as her suspicions
were confirmed. Lucien had ordered the servants to prevent her
visiting Harrison. As she recalled the distinct lack of
correspondence since her wedding day, the scope of his possible
machinations grew, along with the fire of her temper. Had Harrison
written, only to have his letters intercepted? Had
her
letters been intercepted?

The answer came almost immediately, making
her feel like the veriest dupe.
Of course. Lucien would not
leave such things to chance.
Fury filled her like a hot,
poisonous cloud, firing her skin from the inside out.

“Billings, I asked you a question,” she said
distinctly.

His gaze was sympathetic as he reluctantly
answered, “I have been ordered not to comply with any request to
visit Clyde-Lacey House.”

“By my husband?” She knew the answer, but she
wanted to hear him say it.

He swallowed. “I am not at liberty to
say.”

Well, she thought bitterly, perhaps Billings
could not say, but his reaction was all the confirmation she
needed. No matter, she decided quickly. If her arrogant,
insufferable husband thought he could dictate where she went and
when, he had a thing or two to learn about his obedient, loving
wife. And his lessons would begin right now.

“Did Lord Atherbourne forbid my visiting my
modiste?” she asked tightly.

“No, my lady.”

She nodded and gave the butler a forced
smile. “Then have the carriage brought ’round. I have a sudden
desire to do some shopping.”

*~*~*

Chapter Twenty-Five

“
Do not wrap your poor choices in gold thread and
ruffles, and then expect me to offer praise. I may be old, but I am
not blind.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her
modiste, upon being shown a dreadfully over-embellished
pelisse.

A tall, redheaded woman in a dark green
riding habit bumped Victoria’s shoulder as she strode through the
narrow entrance of Bowman’s on Bond Street. The woman apologized
for the collision, but Victoria hurried past her with little more
than a nod.

She glanced around the small front room of
the shop, seeing several ladies seated around a table, cooing over
fashion plates. One of Mrs. Bowman’s assistants, a harried girl
with flyaway blond hair escaping a chignon, brushed aside the blue
curtain separating the dressing area. She carried several bolts of
fabric.

Halfway to her destination, Victoria
intercepted her to ask for Mrs. Bowman.

“She be in back, milady.” The girl’s lowly
London accent was even thicker than Mrs. Garner’s, her eyes wide
and startled. “Shall I fetch ’er for ye?”

Victoria nodded. “If you would.”

“Straight away.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and
placed her colorful burden on a table near the front window before
smiling uncertainly at Victoria and retreating once again behind
the curtain.

Minutes later, Mrs. Bowman made an entrance
worthy of a Drury Lane actress, sweeping aside the drapery and
rushing forward to greet Victoria.

“Ah, Lady Atherbourne. An unexpected
pleasure. Lovely to see you again.” The modiste’s dark eyes fell
and rose along Victoria’s frame, one brow lifted in critical
contemplation. She waved casually at the simple, embroidered white
gown beneath the fitted spencer Victoria wore. “You are here to,
eh, enhance your selection of walking gowns, yes?” A long, elegant
finger lifted the curved collar of lilac velvet, letting it flop
back into place. “A new spencer, perhaps?”

“A new …?” Victoria frowned slightly, then
shook her head at the dressmaker’s implication. She rather liked
the design of the spencer, but Mrs. Bowman had never cared for the
color, and had sewn the garment only under protest. “No, actually,
I am not here to purchase anything.” She reached for the woman’s
hands, clasping them pleadingly. “Mrs. Bowman, I must ask you for a
favor.”

Typically rather unflappable, the Italian
modiste seemed genuinely surprised by Victoria’s overture, lapsing
into her native language. “
Qual è il problema
,
signora?”