‘If only others could see her so clearly.’
And then he took his leave of her, without kissing her hand, and left her staring at the flowers he had brought her, as they wilted on the side table, wondering what in heaven’s name she could do. Because she did love him, she had been forced to acknowledge today, but very plainly, he did not return her love. It was no wonder, perhaps, that he had no eyes for her, or for any woman. He might no longer love Lavinia – he had said so, and she could see that he believed it – but he was still inextricably bound up with her. Even if he hated her, he was in some sense still obsessed with her, and her place in his life. There was no space in his heart or in his thoughts for anyone else. The idea of making his engagement to Amelia genuine had obviously never so much as crossed his mind, and if it had crossed hers, she must banish it.
He had grown a little fond of her, perhaps, and was grateful, and liked to talk to her. She amused him, even, and his life at present held small enough amusement. He was attracted to her, as a frustrated man might easily be to an available woman, or at least he had been when they had kissed. But that was all, and soon enough, when all this chaos had subsided, she would have to break off this ridiculous sham engagement and set him free, though it was the last thing she wanted. They couldn’t pretend to be engaged forever, or even for many more weeks; as well as being obviously impossible, it would be unbearable for her. Soon, it would have to stop.
Sophie was so careful not to interrupt whatever she thought might be happening in the yellow saloon that eventually, Amelia was obliged to go and find her, which she did at the nuncheon table. Rafe and Charlie were there too, full of concern for her health. Once she had persuaded them that she was fit to be out of bed and was not likely to go into a decline because she sat on a hard chair for half an hour and ate some ham, they passed a peaceful enough meal. It was not until later that Sophie was able to speak with her alone, in her cosy sitting room. ‘I perceive that you remain unravished,’ she observed sadly, shaking her red-blonde head, ‘and so, I suppose, does he. It is a great pity.’
Refusing to engage in a discussion of how Sophie could possibly know this, Amelia said glumly, ‘I felt I had to tell him that Lavinia had been to see me. And after that, there was no question of ravishment. He told me everything.’
‘And is she his mistress, as she claims?’
‘No. He said she wasn’t, and I believed him. He admits that the child could be his, but could just as easily not be. It was just once, he said, before she was married, when they were both overwrought at being separated. But he said that he does not love her now, and has no intention of marrying her – as we supposed, in fact.’
‘Come,’ Sophie said encouragingly, ‘that is not too bad, you know. He is free to care for you; that is what matters. One cannot be so strict as to overlook a mistake made eight years ago and never repeated since. He is a man, not a saint. It would be most uncomfortable to be married to a saint, I should imagine. Especially for a Wyverne.’
‘He is free to love me, but he does not. There is no point trying to deceive myself. Sophie, it may well be true that he no longer has feelings for her. But he is bound up with her in a way that does not allow him to look seriously at any other woman. It has clearly not occurred to him to view me in such a light. He as good as told me that he was only able to confide in me because he didn’t care a button for me! I don’t see how you can describe that as a hopeful sign.’
‘I am not sure that is right. All my observations about his concern for you last night still stand. Melia, I am sure there are men who could share such painful details – and you must agree that it was right for him to share them – then turn around instantly and begin making passionate love to you. But I do not think he is one of them. And he would not be someone to be trusted if he were such a person. “My sister-in-law is trying to ruin my life and drive me distracted with her lies, but hey ho, sweetheart, since you’re here, come sit on my lap!” I expect he was distressed at what he was obliged to say to you, and that drove all thoughts or romance from his mind. He is not some smooth Lothario, I think, but someone who feels things deeply, which is to be desired in a man, and certainly in a husband.’
Amelia sniffed and said that no, he wasn’t a smooth Lothario, and obviously she didn’t want him to be, because that sounded most disagreeable. ‘And I said – because you know above all things, I didn’t wish him to believe that I was trapping him – that the engagement wasn’t real, so that he wasn’t forced to remind me of it first. And then he kept repeating it. “I know the engagement isn’t real”, he kept on saying. More times than were strictly necessary, I thought.’
‘Perhaps he wanted to remind himself, more than you,’ said the ever-optimistic Marchioness.
‘I can’t just interpret every single thing he says and does as evidence that he might care for me,’ Amelia replied with a deep sigh. ‘If I do that, I’ll be as bad assheis.’
‘That could never be!’
Matters were, even Sophie had to agree, at an impasse. Lavinia refused to be discouraged, some unknown person had tried to gravely injure Amelia and, so far, got away with it, Amelia was suffering all the torments of unrequited love, and Lord Thornfalcon’s feelings towards her remained unclear, possibly even to himself (this was Sophie’s contribution).
But events were moving apace elsewhere. The host of the fateful ball, Sir Humphrey Aubertin, was a man both proud and hospitable, and, as he had intimated to Lord Wyverne last night, took very strong exception to the idea that one of his guests – and a young lady, too – should be harmed by a person of malicious intent under his very roof. He had not himself seen the hand shoot out and push Lady Amelia down the Carrara marble steps his grandfather had imported at vast expense from some crumbling Italian palazzo, but his trusted major-domo had been close by and had witnessed it, as had several of his intimate circle. He felt as a matter of honour that he was responsible for what could easily have been a most grave injury, and a poor night’s sleep – in which the dreadful incident replayed against his twitching eyelids with increasingly more Gothic outcomes – had crystallised his resolve to do something about it. On rising with a very bad head, he wrote and despatched several notes. One of them was to Lord Wyverne, enquiring anxiously about his dear sister’s health; one was to Lord Thornfalcon with almost identical contents; and one was to the chief magistrate at Bow Street, with whom he happened to be acquainted. An Aubertin would never shirk his duty, no matter how unpleasant.
Lady Aubertin called on the Wyvernes that afternoon, and was able to report back that the interesting young victim had risen from her bed, but was still pale and shaken, and – if she was any judge – in very low spirits. Even the gift of a basket containing several exotic fruits from Sir Humphrey’s famous forcing houses did not appear to cheer her, though she had said all that was civil on receiving them. And if a girl could not be made to smile by a pineapple all of her own, not to mention four or five of the celebrated Aubertin apricots, and a fine bunch of grapes, why, something was seriously amiss. ‘I do not think she blames us, though, dear,’ she told her husband soothingly.
‘Wyverne too was good enough to assure me that he does not,’ her spouse responded dolefully. ‘Pleasant young fellow, I thought, quite serious, and much unlike his rascally father. But it is a very bad thing, Felicity, a very bad thing.’
The result of all this, upon the next day, was a most unusual visitor at Brook Street: Mr Ezekiel Pennyfeather, one of Bow Street’s most celebrated Runners.
22
Marcus went about his daily activities without a great deal of attention. Amelia’s fall had shaken him to the core, and his thoughts were whirling in sad confusion. Nobody seemed to think it in the least odd that he should be distracted; his fiancée had suffered a shocking accident, and any man of sensibility must be affected by it. Several sympathetic people told him as much to his face, and he smiled rather stiffly and thanked them, then tried to turn the subject into less painful channels.
Because it wasn’t true, any of it. Amelia wasn’t his fiancée, they weren’t about to be married, and though obviously it was right that he should be concerned for her, as for anyone who’d suffered an accident, their whole relationship was a fiction, and nothing more than that. If he cared deeply, he had no right to. If he could not shake off the overwhelming sensations that fizzed in his veins when he’d touched her, he should. They’d kissed, good God… butthathe must banish from his mind. If only he could.
He blamed himself. It must be obvious to the meanest intelligence that Lady Amelia had been assaulted because of him. She’d been tattled about before, but nobody had tried to put a period to her existence before she’d tangled herself in his life, a life that was more complicated than she could possibly have known. When she had proposed their arrangement, she had done so in ignorance and, knowing so much more than she did, he never should have agreed to it. He had been criminally irresponsible, and she had paid the price for it.
She had thought that he was merely troubled by gossip, as she was, and that one of those rumours – which, for all she knew, might have been entirely baseless – tied him to his sister-in-law, and her scheme might serve to free him from it. But the truth was far beyond anything she could have imagined. In some respects, her plan had worked perfectly. But inevitably, his deeper and more discreditable involvement with Lavinia, even though it was long since over, had been unknown to her.
She knew now. He burned with mortification as he remembered his awkward, stumbling words when he’d been obliged to tell her everything. Her lovely face, as she struggled to suppress the shock she must have been feeling and hear him out. Her willingness to believe him, when she had no reason to trust him, or any man. Her bravery, when to set him at his ease, she had attempted to make a joke of it. She was a remarkable young lady, an angel, and he’d realised it too late.
Perhaps it had always been too late for them, but he had another reason to curse Lavinia now. It had been her purpose, it was plain, to render him unavailable to any other woman, to mark him as hers forever. How successfully she had done so. She’d put in him a position where, as few men ever were, he’d been forced to confess all his dirtiest secrets to someone he’d much prefer thought exceedingly well of him.
Amelia might pay him the great compliment of believing him an honest man, for which he must always be profoundly grateful, but that was all. Her father had been the country’s most notorious libertine, and she had suffered gravely for it, as had her whole family. Only a blockhead would imagine that she’d want more of the same in her own private life. Of course she would not. She deserved so much better. And one might say what one wished about the late Marquess of Wyverne, but he had not brought Bow Street Runners to his family’s door, as Marcus now learned from Sir Humphrey thathehad.
Though she was kind enough not to say so, Amelia must be desperate to end this farce of an engagement. No doubt her brothers, who loved her, were urging her to do so without delay. While she was still tied to Marcus in the eyes of the world, she could not be safe. Next time, she could be killed. The thought was unendurable.
He could not end their connection himself – and though he should want to for her sake, he was painfully aware that he didn’t, not in the least – so he could only pull back from an illusion of closeness that could only hurt them both, and hope that after a decent interval had passed, she would speak, and say that it was over. Then she could be free, and safe. That would have to be enough for him.
23
